


Merry Tunes and Mountain Lions

by Madrigal_in_training



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Jon Snow, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Ghost and Grey Wind will help, He'll even threaten the Kingslayer, Jaime is a very pretty idiot, Jaime is sort-of redeemed, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Robb is a good big brother, Starks are a pack, Tyrion doesn't know how to sew marriage cloaks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-01-18 01:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12378102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madrigal_in_training/pseuds/Madrigal_in_training
Summary: Lyarra Snow had not expected a hand extended in kindness to be remembered. Now there was a lion knight loitering around the Wolfswood asking for her hand in marriage. “Why, Jory? Why can’t any of my daughters have normal suitors?” fem!Jon, Jaime x Jon, Sansa x Domeric (side pairing)





	1. Snow Spirits in Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Jaime Lannister gets terribly drunk and also finds himself tucked into bed by a bastard.

 

The only positive trait that his goodbrother had, Ser Jaime Lannister decided, was his impeccable taste in wines. When coupled with his derision of ‘counting the coppers’ as it were, it allowed men of all walks of life to share that benefit. Normally Jaime wouldn’t have been one of those men. He had gold aplenty to spend but there was precious little to purchase in the half-frozen wasteland called the North. The ale and beer being served in the Great Hall was too coarse for his tongue and even had it not been, Jaime would have scorned spending a moment longer than necessary in the company of Lord Eddard fucking Stark. No doubt had Robert deigned to release his friend’s company tonight, the honorable Northmen would have been equally displeased to be hosting an _oathbreaker_ in his home.

 

‘ _Not that I had any choice to be here,’_ the lion knight thought sourly. He would have much rather been in King’s Landing with Cersei but had been denied the opportunity by the Stag King and his whims. The plan had been to drop off the Greyjoy hostage in Winterfell and venture south soon after but upon closer reflection, the Baratheon had decided against it. Apparently the three moons spent waging war against Balon weren’t sufficient to becoming reacquainted with his one true Northern love. Jaime suspected that had Robert been able to marry Lyanna Stark as expected, he would have advocated trips to his lady wife’s home even more often than she did.

 

 _‘I’m surprised that Ned Stark’s sermonizing hasn’t driven him off yet.’_ Robert had barely been into his cups before he started pawing at one of the bustier maids serving the royal party. It was evident that Ned Stark found this behavior discomforting but then he wasn’t quite so innocent there either, was he? ‘ _At least I’m off of guard duty for the night. Moore and Blount should be enough to guard the King and whomever he’s disgracing my sister with for the night._ ’

 

The other men were at the lower tables congratulating themselves on their own feats of skill and valor, imagined or not. Jaime had opted to drink in solitude and darkness instead, in one of the abandoned lower courtyards near the library tower, where none could bother him. The cold, crisp air biting at his cheeks, he had worked himself through two flagons of wine already. Stronger than the stuff he usually drank, the lion still welcomed the sickly-sweet warmth it brought to his belly.

 

He didn’t know how long it had been until a voice broke through the silence.

 

“Ser?” Jaime’s hand moved to the pommel of his sword before he could think, could marvel at the person that managed to sneak up to him even in this inebriated state. “Ser, are you alright?”

 

The girl that stepped into one of the pools of torchlight carried a tome in her hand. It was braced firmly against her chest as a shield of sorts, her figure holding itself closely to the stone wall.

 

“Who are you?” Jaime demanded, words slurred.

 

The darkest eyes he had ever seen, not quite black but a deep, striking violet met his gaze evenly. “Lyarra Snow, Ser.”

 

“Ned Stark’s Bastard.” It took a moment to place her with his dizzy head. Jaime’s lips curled. A bastard younger than her own trueborn brother, presented to Robert mere hours after her father condemned him a man without honor. “What are you doing here, Bastard?”

 

Her eyes flickered briefly to her book, face eerily serene when it returned to him. “I was in the library. I saw you out here.”

 

“So you did.” The girl-child- the Heir was nine or ten namedays, was he not?- looked away, unnerved by his stare. “And what did you want then?”

 

Her lips pressed closer. She didn’t move away. “Have you drunk all this wine, Ser?”

 

“Why should it matter to you if I had?” Jaime took another swig of the drink, bringing it down and seeing displeasure on that pale face. So very pale, it would have been sickly, if not for the glow of youth. “Are you here to censure me for my habits?”

 

“No.” Lyarra Snow turned on her heel, form tall for her age and all the slimmer for it before she hesitated. Still in that torchlight that cast bronze on her dark curls, she gave him a measured look. “Does anyone else know that you’re here?”

 

Not interested in answering her, Jaime continued to drink down his third jug. It must have been answer enough for her reaction was to release a small huff of air, a dragon’s smoke ring in the Northern cold, and sink down to her knees. Ignoring him afterward, she focused on the book.

 

“You seek to keep me company in my drink? What for? You are merely a bastard, are you not?”

 

The child does not acknowledge this point and by now, his belly demands wine again, so Jaime allows it. He hasn’t any interest in conversing with a dull Northerner regardless.

 

Yet curiosity and boredom compel him eventually. “Have you any reason stay here, Bastard?”

 

“It would be dishonorable to allow you to fall asleep in the courtyard, Ser.”

 

“Oh good, a bastard that cares about her honor. I had hoped to meet one such exotic creature before my death.”

 

The girl-child was not yet serene enough to hide the tension in her shoulders. Jaime needled her further. “Who taught you of honor then?”

 

There was a current of pride in her answer. “My Lord Father.”

 

“He couldn’t have cared too much for it, else you wouldn’t be here.”

 

A brief flash of violet eyes, a moue of anger on those bow-shaped lips. He would have thought that spurred an answer but she was more self-controlled than he had thought. They did say bastards grew more quickly than their trueborn counterparts. “Are you mute as well as sinful then?”

 

“Is there anything that Ser would like me to say?”

 

Jaime’s gaze ventured down curiously. “Hmm, tell me of the book you are reading.”

 

“ _A History of Naval Warfare in Westeros,”_ was the polite if strained response.

 

“Of course. Dancing, sewing and the art of war. All important skills for a lady to know.”

 

“I am no Lady.” The words had an echo to them, as though she was repeating something heard before and often. “Are you done drinking?”

 

To spite her, he took another swig. “Are you getting cold?”

 

The amusement was back now but it was softer, the wind nipping her cheeks into a bright pink color and adding innocence to the strangely melancholy child. “The winds will turn soon and you are not properly dressed for them.”

 

The golden-haired knight looked down at his chainmail and armor, above which a thick cloak of fittingly enough wolf’s fur had been thrown. It struck him as far more useful than the thin wool dress of grey that the child wore. “I’m dressed far more warmly than you. Mayhaps you should return then.”

 

“My name befits me, Ser.” There is a smile on her face, amused yet gentle, though the Snow child attempts to hide it behind words of war. Jaime thinks to steal it from her, for happiness warmed one better than any drink but he is not so unkind. He takes another swig to forget the bastard’s smile, forget the castle, forget his circumstances, forget the white cloak around his shoulders…

 

The first shards of ice and snow are unknown to him. It’s not until a wetness appears around the rim of his bottle, thin droplets of water sliding down his thumb, that he realizes. “It’s snowing.”

 

“Yes.” He looks down at her, still sitting on the ground, face tilted up, a crown of ice forming from the droplets clinging to her dark hair. In this light, her violet eyes stir something within him. Jaime doesn’t name this strange turn of emotion. “Would you care to go inside now?”

 

“You may, if you wish.” His voice is softer now but the bottle empties even faster and Eddard Stark’s bastard refuses to move. This flagon of wine makes his head spin even faster. He speaks not to keep his tongue from slurring, turns not to keep his hand from drawing her closer. What are those eyes that make him so melancholy? Who is this bastard that won’t allow Jaime to suffer his demons in peace?

 

“I am Lyarra Snow.” It’s not until she speaks that he realizes the words said aloud. There is a concern to those eyes- _pretty, so-very-pretty bastards shouldn’t step outside of their father’s shadow or their guardsman’s sword_ \- but a stubborn light as well. This is familiar and Jaime tries to recall why.

 

He steps back once, keeps both hands in her sight and watches as, almost imperceptibly, those thin shoulders loosen. “Your Father’s name?”

 

The answer is prompt, defiant and proud. “Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.”

 

“Your Mother’s?” Where did you come by those violet eyes, Bastard?

 

The answer is still prompt, still defiant but no longer proud. “I do not know.”

 

Jaime would have blamed the wine for his next words. “Lady Ashara Dayne, the Fallen Star of Dorne. Have you heard of her?”

 

It’s evident by her reaction that she did. Violet eyes darken and she looks back down. Burying herself in the words of dead men to run from the speech of the living. Tyrion would have appreciated that.

 

“The rumors say Ned Stark stole her heart at Harrenhal, her maidenhead at the Eyrie and her babe at Starfall. They say he rode back to King’s Landing after she threw herself off of a tower in her grief.” Jaime studied the chalky whiteness of the child’s skin and took a pleasure, hollow though it was, from the anger wrought there. Hadn’t he seen the same fury on Eddard Stark’s face when he stumbled into the throne room all those years ago? “What say you of those whispers?”

 

The child regarded him with a cold expression. “The howls of men die in the winter winds.”

 

“The southward winds are fairer, Bastard. You would hear the men well enough there.” Jaime leans forward, intrigued by how she does not press back. The world was not a kind place for daughters or bastards and this child, carrying the weaknesses of both, had been done no favors raised here. Outside of the Quiet Wolf’s carefully ruled domains, she would fall prey to all kinds of whispers. “Have you never cared to venture beyond the narrow walls and small keeps of your home?”

 

“Winterfell is hardly _small,_ Ser.” It doesn’t address his other question and the lion knight thinks there to be curiosity in those eyes. Not unexpected for a child that cradles a history of naval warfare to her chest when the North boasts little of such power. “You’re shivering.”

 

“You’re not.” The snow is falling more thickly now, the cold winds finding the tiny chinks of his cloak and biting into his body. Jaime wonders why the bastard girl reacts to it with such aplomb. Is she made of snow and ice that the winter storms bring her no bother? “Are you a nature spirit?”

 

The words startle her into laughter. He leans back, unexpected hollows of grief and _want_ panging through him. Jaime doesn’t understand what it is, when she looks at him, pale cheeks flushed with blood, eyes bright. “No, Ser, I am not. As you said, I am merely a bastard and a cold one at that.”

 

“I had thought your name befitted you.” Jaime is shivering strongly but he is a grown man with a wolfskin pelt. She is a child in a wool dress; he would not be the first to venture inside. “A lie?”

 

“Yes,” she agrees readily. “May we go inside now?”

 

The blonde knight eyes her critically. He reaches out a hand and rests it at the place easiest to reach for him, at the base of her throat, by her collarbones. The dark-haired child trembles before him but doesn’t move, the skin beneath the pads of his fingers is heated. Jaime scowls. “You’re lying to me.”

 

There is reproach in her eyes though her voice remains steady and deferential. He remembers this from his childhood, Lady Joanna Lannister scolding her husband while acknowledging his authority. His mother had always seemed to get the better of those engagements. “The winds are howling. It would be wise to return to the castle now.”

 

“Then I welcome you to leave.” Jaime has never heard himself sound so petulant before and dislikes it at once. He is not a child that this _actual_ child could take him to task over. “Go inside, Bastard.”

 

Lyarra Snow does not move and they stay out still, him consuming more and more wine to stave off the cold, and her quietly reading. She turns to him occasionally with disquieted lips and complaints barely held back by a sense of decorum. In turn, Jaime spitefully empties his third flagon and then starts on his fourth. At some point, he is quite certain that the Starks had built a second well across from the and that the dummies in the courtyard were dancing to the music from the Great Hall. His shaking hands spill wine more than once, so he plops down on the unforgiving ground to keep it from spilling further.

 

 _‘Shouldn’t the voices be here by now?’_ They don’t appear all too often but this deeply in drink, he should be visited Lewyn, Gerold, Oswell, Jonothor and Arthur. The last especially with his silver-white hair and aster blue eyes, more the Silver Prince’s brother than Viserys had ever been, to regard him. If Jaime was lucky, they would be angry and if he were not, disgusted and ashamed.

 

The bastard girl takes this moment to loudly turn one of the pages, his head lolling to the left to look at her. Is she why the spirits of the dead haven’t flocked to him now? “They call me the Kingslayer.”

 

“I know.” The words are clipped. She doesn’t even look up. “You’re Ser Jaime Lannister.”

 

“You know my name?” Wait, should Jaime be surprised by this? He is one of the most famous names in Westeros and his white cloak, his golden hair, his emerald eyes, how would she not have known? “Why are you sitting out here for me?”

 

“It would be dishonorable to allow you to fall asleep in the courtyard, Ser Jaime.”

 

There really was only was response that could be given for that. “You are _undoubtedly_ a Stark.”

 

It’s not a compliment but Jaime bets the bastard would be pleased by the words nonetheless. He doesn’t have the time to see her reaction, as he is suddenly, and quite violently, sick.

 

The snowy white wonderland created in their little corner of nowhere is marred rather tragically by the yellow-green bile spewed from his throat. He thinks a few flecks to litter his white cloak but the vast majority doesn’t touch him. It’s helped in this by small hands- calloused, why does a noble child’s hands have callouses?- supporting his body, keeping Jaime’s swaying body aloft while he vomits.

 

It’s a mark of his own self-control that she manages it. For all that her hands pull upwards, his armor and weight is such that Jaime would fall over if not for his own iron will. When he is done, the lion knight finds himself gasping in fresh, pure, icy Northern air with a bastard girl pressed comfortingly by his side. He looks over to her.

 

“ _Boys,_ ” she says in such utter and total exasperation that even he is driven to smile.

 

The smile disappears when he reaches for his last jug of wine- the taste on his tongue is absolutely vile- and she kicks it away. It hits against the stone wall of the library tower and shatters. Dusky purple-red of a dry Arbor Red vintage stains the fresh snow as darkly as spilled blood.

 

“My wine,” Jaime says mournfully. He is tempted to draw his sword and hit the bastard with its hilt.

 

“Tilt your head up and stick out your tongue,” Lyarra Snow replies impatiently. She tugs on his shoulders, trying to pull him up and simply because she was a Stark and he felt like being contrary, Jaime sits down. His head is throbbing and this mayhaps adds to the golden knight’s decision.

 

“I don’t want to.” His voice is pleasant. She glowers at him. Apparently, after a few hours of sitting quietly by his side as he drunk himself into a stupor, even this bastard’s composure suffered. In comparison, his own spirits were high. They are high enough that he could look at this landscape of black and grey and white- black sky, grey walls, white snowfall- touched only by the light pooling from the library tower’s windows and the bastard’s violet eyes, and pronounce it tolerable.

 

Jaime does so, in such a generous fashion that Lyarra Snow looks tempted to box his ears in.

 

“I am going inside,” she announces. Returning to her book- Jaime hadn’t even noticed that it had been dropped on the snow- the slender figure turns on her heel and makes to stride off. He is particularly offended by this. They had just been having a moment, hadn’t they?

 

He tries to struggle to his feet, staggers and sways, and nearly falls over but for the hands returned to his chest. Palms splayed against the metal of his chestplate look too small, too fragile to belong to the smug bastard in front of him. She hadn’t moved that far after all and though tall for her age, slender and gangly, the Snow remains nearly two heads shorter than him.

 

Her smile is dazzling now. “I suppose that we are going inside then, Ser Jaime.”

 

His reply is an unintelligible grumble that only makes that smile widen. It reminds him somewhat of his brother and he attributes his fondness of Tyrion to why he allows her to lead him back. Her feet unerringly head towards the Great Keep rather than the further Guard’s Hall or the nearby Guest House. He inquires why.

 

“I’m a bastard, Ser, not an idiot,” is the swift reply. She offers him a smile that is almost pitying. “My Father would grant the most luxurious room to his friend and the King will want his guards close.”

 

“A man with a crown who wants the _Kingslayer_ at his back?” He means to be acerbic but it comes out bitter instead. Not that the distracted hum of the bastard acknowledges it, as she slowly but surely leads him through the flurries of snow dusting their sight. Her palm remains strangely warm against his chest and on his sleeve.

 

By some curiosity, they pass no other soul on their way back, all others driven to the light and laughter of the Great Hall. Many would likely pass out on the straw or wooden tables there, even Robert and were Jaime to care for being his Kingsguard, he would have headed there. Though in his inebriated state, a child with a blunted tourney sword could have gotten past him.

 

“Your Father gave me that title, you know.” His head is throbbing even more strongly now. Everything around him appears blurry but for the figure of the bastard, slender cut against the snow. “He walked in on me sitting in the throne room, Aerys’ bloody corpse at my feet and named me oathbreaker.”

 

She peeks up at him, surprise lit in her eyes. To shock her further, he adds, “I was laughing then.”

 

Jaime doesn’t know what he expects. Anger mayhaps, disgust and horror certainly, but not the concern by which she looks at him. They pause in their steady drudge, the bastard raising on tiptoes to press her hand against his forehead. “Fever,” she mutters quietly.

 

“Aerys’ blood pooled on the floor,” he continues relentlessly. “He had fallen down the steps and those were stained red too. I took his position on the Iron Throne. I’ll never know why people vie for that ugly chair. Hardly comfortable. Countless times can I recall the King being cut on the damned thing.”

 

The bastard persisted in drawing him forward. They were at the cusp of the Great Keep now, her shoulder pushing one of the side doors open, rather than the massive red-painted ones at the center. The hallway inside is bare of servants but illuminated with torchlight and far warmer than outside. Jaime almost recoils at the heat suddenly replacing the iciness to her limbs.

 

“It didn’t cut me, strangely enough,” Jaime mused aloud. “Swords rarely do. I was the youngest knight to be raised to the Kingsguard, you know.”

 

His own room should be higher up but she brings him to an empty one near the bottom floor. An empty bed and a lone desk greet him and, after pushing him onto the sheets, the bastard moves to start a fire in the hearth. In a moment’s time, there is a softly flickering flame there.

 

“Aerys was no warrior. It was easy to kill him. Someone should have done it years ago. Mayhaps your Uncle and Grandfather would be alive if they had.”

 

The bastard approaches the bed again, her features in greater relief from the light of the hearth. They cast a warm glow to her snowlit skin, as she studies him with a hesitant eye. Once, twice, her hands move towards his armor but draw back at the last moment, when she recalls the impropriety of it all. Jaime wonders why it should concern her now when she already brought herself into a darkened room with him- a bedroom, even. It’s not as though his chestplate remaining would save her from scandal should they be found here.

 

Not that this is his concern. There is a matter of greater concern for him.

 

Jaime grabs her hand when she tries to move closer again. The bastard makes a squeak of surprise and tries to jerk it back but his own grasp is too strong for that. He brings her closer to the bed, notes the fear in her eyes and thinks well of it. She should learn to be cautious of men for not all of them would have the same intentions Jaime did.

 

Mostly he just wants to ruin any sort of sympathy she may have had for him, so that those melancholy eyes would be filled with disgust as a part of him insists that they must be.

 

“I do not regret it,” he says quietly. “It was my finest act.”

 

Jaime releases her hand. She doesn’t move from the bed but looks down, book clenched so tightly that her fingers seem bone-white. “Why?”

 

It’s a whisper, an unraveling, a question that only his kin had dared to offer before. She’s not a Stark then for Eddard Stark would have never been so fair. The world was as white and black as the snow and sky for these Northern wolves. _“Why?”_

 

“Why did you do it?” Tyrion would love this child. Her curiosity drove her past the limits of good sense or societal dictates, had her loom silently as a snowy spectre above the bed. “Why kill the Mad King?”

 

 _‘Why ask me?’_ Jaime wants to say. Instead his mouth opens and he tells the truth. Of wildfire and alchemists, of mad kings and the five hundred thousand men, women and children that would have died for a dragon’s pride. He speaks of men burnt at the pyre, of a gentle Queen’s rape, of the Silver Prince’s promise before he left a boy-not-yet-man to guard his family, of those hated words.

 

“ _We don’t protect her, not from him,_ ” the knight recalled. “But if not us, then who will? Not her father, who married her off to this madman. Not her brothers, dead by the green fires of Summerhall. Not any courtier or knight or lord, for whom the word of his King is akin to the Gods. No one, no one would protect this pitiful Queen. The most powerful woman in the kingdom and raped every night with the finest and most honorable warriors in the land as her witness.”

 

“This was the Order that I joined. But oh, how I loved my white cloak. You cannot imagine my pride to have been knighted by the Sword of the Morning himself. He was everything a Kingsguard should have been. Good and brave and just. Fighting for the innocent, defending the weak, inspiring the pitiful… and staying silent when those he was sworn to committed their own atrocities. We closed our eyes and ears and called ourselves honorable. We were fools. I was a fool.”

 

“And when I killed him, I was an even greater fool.” He looked at her with pain-filled emeralds for eyes. “A traitor, an oathbreaker, a _Kingslayer_.”

 

“A hero,” Lyarra broke in. “You were a hero.”

 

“You’re the second to call me such,” he informed her. “The first was my brother, you see, and he is ever-partial to my feats.”

 

“My father named you Kingslayer?”

 

“Your father named me many things, Bastard,” Jaime snorted. “It was Kingslayer that stuck, though I believe that ‘dead’ would be his preferred term.”

 

She steps back and he wonders briefly if she should strike him. Her hands are trembling, the pink flush disappeared almost entirely from her cheeks. Then, to his utter shock, she bends into a bow. When she stands back up, the Snow looks at him with a sorrowful expression, one of genuine regret.

 

“I am a bastard and my words mean little,” Lyarra Snow says slowly. “But on behalf of House Stark, I would apologize for my father’s actions. He was wrong. We all were.”

 

Jaime closes his eyes, not ready to face her. “You’re right. In the way of things, a bastard’s words mean little.”

 

There is silence from her end but also hands pulling his boots off. She leaves his chest plate and faulds alone but fumbles with the clasps on his gauntlets and the vambrace on his elbow. Even with eyes closed, Jaime is certain that her cheeks are burning when she reaches the cuisses on his thighs. Her movements are positively jerky when she draws the blankets up to his throat. The lion knight hears footsteps recede from him, footsteps come closer and yet more blankets are tucked around him.

 

“I prefer a glass of water to be available when I wake, Bastard.”

 

“Good night, Ser Jaime,” is her dry yet not unkind response. He opens his eyes one last time to see her looking down, violet eyes directing a certain depth of sympathy and admiration towards him, before she finally leaves. The bastard is well and truly gone when he whispers his own goodnight.

 

 _‘I am going to regret this in the morning,_ ’ is Jaime Lannister’s final thought before sleep claims him.

 

x


	2. Lingonberry Jam and Wildfire Plots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Jaime Lannister tries lingonberry jam and steals a smile meant for Robb Stark.

Chapter Two

 

It’s his dry mouth that wakes him eventually. Not the washed out sunlight that casts his bare room in a pale, forlorn glow or the stabbing pains pinning down his brow or even the way his empty stomach clenches in hunger-pangs. No, it’s that sickening taste gagged in the back of his throat, the way his tongue lies bloated and heavy in his mouth, the cotton-like filament on his unwashed teeth that reminds him, yes, he had staggered to his bed drunk last night. He hadn’t done it alone either, which would have struck him in horror as the first time he betrayed Cersei, except his fuzzy recollections recalled warmth over passion and the comfort of being tucked into bed. Jaime’s not as experienced with whores as his younger brother may be but even he was aware that such behavior is abnormal for them. Not that he could recall visiting the quaint town nearby Winterfell either… 

 

It’s not until his emerald eyes fall on a pitcher and an innocuous wooden cup that the memories come back to him.  _ ‘The bastard child brought me here.’ _

 

A few moments later, Jaime recalls his impudent behavior, the crass words he had offered and the secret he’d revealed. He cringes at them all, particularly his persistence in reminding a child of… seven… eight… some young age anyway, of her birth status. Ser Jaime Lannister did not consider himself a particularly gallant knight but he had sworn the same oaths and held the same vigil as they all did. There hadn’t been any reason to humiliate the child, even if she did have the utter gall, born of kindness or not, to kick away the wine that he’d honestly stolen from Robert. 

 

Speaking of Robert, that foolish lush of a King he was sworn to was likely still in bed. No matter how many bottles Jaime had consumed last night, he felt it a safe bet that Robert had done more and would be sleeping off his ills in his good friend’s home now. The bastard girl-  _ Lyarra, she’d said, Lyarra Snow of the haunting violet eyes-  _ had led him to the Guest Keep had she not? If so, Jaime wasn’t overly impressed with the grandeur of it; all the basics were there but the room was spartan enough to fit within the White Sword Tower.

 

When the blonde knight had managed to pull himself up to his feet, ignoring his aches with the ease of a warrior trained to endure pain since his toddling years, he took another look around the room. The practical gray stone of the North, a hearth still filled with burning embers, a pine bed, a matching dresser and table in the same dark-stained wood and many rumpled quilts. He had remembered the child tucking several around him but while most were the patterned grey and navy of the servant’s work, one was a dusky violet-blue stitched clumsily of yellow stars in a child’s hand. The Lannister had to notch his head to the side, only mildly due to the spin, to find the center one a shooting star. 

 

_ ‘The bastard knows of Lady Ashara then.’  _ Any guilt that may have arose from resting under the Sword of the Morning’s House emblem was chased away by a dark amusement. The Quiet Wolf raises the niece of the once-finest knight in the lands, the one to die by his own hand. ‘ _ I’ll have to speak to her of the pyromancers. _ ’

 

Jaime Lannister should never have spoken of Aerys’ mad plot, even to a nameless bastard child. It had been a swift agreement between his father and Lord Arryn to hide the conspiracy and covertly dispose of the dangerous substance. Even the King, who loathed the dragons and found grim satisfaction in another madness to accuse them of, agreed. None desired to panic the residents of King’s Landing… and there would be panic, no doubt, as despite all of the containers Lord Tywin had found, the tally had not yet added up to the quantity recorded in the Alchemist’s Guild.

 

Not that it mattered if Jaime was forced to be silent. None had thought to question his motive before.

 

‘ _ None but a little bastard girl in the North,’  _ the knight mused, pulling the simpler pieces of his armor on. He would need a squire’s assistance for the remainder- or perhaps a helpful snow spirit without any common sense to her name- and decided to find where the servants had placed his trunks first.  _ ‘She called me a hero.’ _

 

It struck something in him, however involuntary it was. Lyarra Snow was a bastard. She was  _ Ned Stark’s _ bastard. Her words meant little, her admiration even less so, she was  _ nothing _ and  _ nobody _ and  _ no one _ and even then, to a nameless child he would never see again, Jaime was a hero. He had never been anyone’s hero before.

 

_ ‘You’re the second to call me such. The first was my brother, you see, and he is ever-partial to my feats.’ _

 

Now there were two of them. Both the bastards of their father’s home. 

 

‘ _ Tyrion would like this child, _ ’ Jaime knew. His own emotions were more complex. A current of ire ran under his veins, interwoven with a desperate yearning that he shirked away from in the light of day. Confusion over the utter perplexity that was Lyarra Snow sidelined a quiet, sincere happiness over the reassurance she’d given him. Derision that she’d follow him into his room and undress him with her own hands, underlined by gratitude for a foolish path taken. There was something else there, something light, that almost felt like vindication but warmer and not yet formed.  And a good deal of hunger too but Jaime supposed that to be his decision to forego supper the night before.

 

With the King still sleeping off his drink, Jaime could correct the last deficiency now.

 

The lion knight judged himself as ready as he’d ever be. His crimson tunic was a bit rumpled but covered under silver metal that still gleaned from his squire’s work. The white cloak of his position fell dashingly from his shoulders, pinned to his right breast by a golden lion brooch. His leather trousers were tucked neatly into his calfskin boots, the collar of his undershirt risen properly to frame his neck. Dipping his fingers into the dregs of water left in the cup, he’d run them through his golden hair, adding a wild touch to his features. Jaime fit carelessly handsome rather well- Tyrion had even said so, rolling his eyes all the while- but he rarely tried the look.

 

‘ _ Cersei prefers a more dapper beauty _ ,’ Jaime recalled, scowling at his lack of brush. He suddenly desired a means to reassure himself.  _ ‘Couldn’t they have spent a handful of stags on a looking glass?’  _

 

Mayhaps Ned Stark didn’t want reminders of his ugly face every day but Jaime actually liked his reflection! ‘ _ Lady Ashara’s beauty was great indeed to have stamped out that Stark forehead and those exceedingly thick eyebrows. And that  _ nose _.’ _

 

If Ned Stark wasn’t such an insufferable human being, Jaime would pity him for his nose alone.

 

Nonetheless, he was an insufferable human being and he’d sired an equally insufferable daughter, even if there was something almost endearing to the child’s nature. However endearing it was though and however necessary a message he had to be conveyed, the lion knight hadn’t any particular desire to chase down a snow spirit this morning. Breakfast first. Impetuous bastards with haunting violet eyes could appear after that.

 

_ ‘She left me on the ground floor? _ ’ Jaime realized, stepping out into the hallway and finding that the only stairs led upwards. How insulting. Admittedly it would be difficult for a child of… seven… eight… however many years to carry him upwards but still, he’d never been roomed on a  _ bottom _ floor before.  _ ‘At least she ensured a water pitcher was available.’ _

 

Were Jaime a better son, he would track down any maids sent to deliver his pitcher and cup and bribe them to secrecy of this little drunk indiscretion. Alas, he was not and the Lannister reputation would suffer whatever minimal slight this incident could bring in the lands of nothing and nowhere. In a little corner of his soul, the blonde knight spitefully gloried over how he was not, and would likely never be, the son his father wanted. The son his father  _ had _ , if only he could bring himself to accept Tyrion.

 

Not that Tyrion didn’t have his own vices. Drinking and whoring aside, he also drove their Aunt Gemma up the wall by sneaking valuable books into the dining table for mealtimes. 

 

_ ‘He’s not the only one with the habit,’ _ Jaime noted, decidedly amused as he stepped into the Great Hall. A little, dark-haired head was bowed over her lap on one of the lesser tables, an array of Northern staples surrounding her, though her pickings were slim. ‘ _ May as well bring down two ravens with one arrow.’ _

 

The lion knight walked past many of the servants bustling about the tables, surprised to find how many of the upper servants and even guards had woken at this early hour. It was unconscionable by the Court’s standards, as they preferred a leisurely, ceremonial affair before noon, but there was less sunlight to be wasted on such frivolities in the North. Those were a people marked by practicality- a trait that lent decisively towards abruptness and tedium, Jaime had observed- and this was reflected in every aspect of their life and demeanor. 

 

It would also, he lamented, do little for his taste buds.

 

Jaime filled his plate to the brim with a great deal of the small variety of food laid out that he sincerely liked. The Starks laid a heavy table of dark, nutty bread, cold pea soup, fried eggs, boiled potato slices, greasy sausages, oat porridge and pickled herring, amongst other culinary delights that he cared not for. There wasn’t any fruit available, dried or otherwise, but there were plenty of jams and preserves that were easier to handle in the North. The knight mostly focused on bread, eggs and sausages for himself, laying the plate across from the bastard with a little more force than strictly necessary. His eggs wobbled worrisomely for a second but the dark-haired girl wouldn’t look up.

 

“Snow.” Jaime regretted the sharp tone of his voice not a moment later than it escaped him and it rankled a bit that he did so. His features remained in pleasant neutrality though, as the name drew owlish eyes up to blink at him dazedly. 

 

“Hmm?” It took a heartbeat for her mind to draw itself out of those inked words but the moment it did, the blonde saw that snow-kissed skin flush pink. The bastard scrambled a second for a proper greeting before settling on, “Ser Jaime, I hope you’re well-rested?”

 

“I am.” And that acknowledgement was as far as he would go to thank her. “I’d hoped to speak of… your history lesson last night.”

 

A flicker of emotions passed through her expressive eyes too swiftly for him to pinpoint them.  _ ‘I wish Tyrion was here to tell me what in the Gods she’s thinking.’ _

 

“You must never speak of my words again.”

 

Those bow-shaped lips curved downwards a bit, as the bastard closed her book and laid it neatly on her lap. “Were they untrue?”

 

The safer answer would have been to assure her that yes, he had lied that night. He truly was the monster that the commonmost narrative made him out to be. Jaime should have offered that answer but alas, he was not the better son. “They were but that is of no matter.”

 

She was definitely frowning now. “I don’t understand-”

 

“You don’t need to,” Jaime threw in flippantly. “Be a good little girl and listen to your betters.”

 

He received a reactionary glower for that- likely he had ceased being her ‘better’ somewhere between that third wine bottle and being violently sick- but she quickly caught herself. Violet eyes skittered around him and then Lyarra Snow schooled her face into a nearly perfect mask of submissiveness. It was only that defiant glint in her eyes that she failed to suppress as she acquiesced to his request.

 

Picking up her own slice of nutty bread, thickly slathered in a ruby red jam, the bastard took a swift bite and proceeded to move her eyes away. 

 

For some reason, that simply served to tick Jaime off. ‘ _ Who does she think she is to ignore my edict and avoid my eyes? This conversation isn’t  _ over _ yet. _ ’

 

“This includes your father, of course.” Another shallow nod, averting her eyes and taking a small bite.

 

“You will also stay silent on the matter of my infirmity.” A third bite, first to her lip as though she was suppressing a question, likely one relating to his health considering she was a  _ Stark _ , but then a nibble of bread. There was a streak of jam across her lips that she nervously licked off before nodding.

 

“In return, I shall never speak of your transgressions on my person.” His tone was as haughty as he could manage- and certainly, as a Lannister, Jaime could  _ manage _ \- but other than a loosening of her shoulders, she did nothing more. It was another goddamn nod without any eye contact in the least.

 

_ Starks _ . 

 

Lyarra Snow was such an insufferable little girl that Jaime Lannister had no doubt she was sired of Ned Stark’s loins. Upset, and both ignorant of and indifferent to the reason why, Jaime sullenly watched the child reach for a small dish of her ruby red jam. Feeling rather petty, he decided to snatch it out before she could and then, because violet eyes were  _ finally _ looking at him and he realized how foolish it would be not to follow through, the Lannister reluctantly spread a bit of this unknown mixture onto his bread. Then he took a bite.

 

And promptly scowled. It was delicious.  _ Dammit. _

 

x

 

Lyarra had to stand on her very tip toes to  _ carefully _ slide the heavy tome of herblore out from the shelf. Her arms groaned in protest, especially after she’d had to drag one of the blocky chairs all the way to the back of the library to put her old text away in the second-highest shelf, but she persevered. Sacrifices had to be made to keep her reputation intact.

 

_ ‘Though why anyone’s reputation would be sullied around  _ that _ man is beyond my knowledge,’  _ Lyarra huffed. Jaime Lannister may have been handsome and brave but he was certainly wasn’t gallant. Blackmailing children with the loss of their honor was  _ not _ knightly behavior. 

 

It was why she took the added precaution of putting  _ A Comprehensive History of the Alchemy Guild  _ and  _ An Account of a Mad King  _ away by herself, rather than leave it out for Maester Luwin to see to later. Her arms didn’t thank her for the task but if the alternative was disappointing Father, she would accept it. Lyarra may have been reckless- and, upon further review, she’d been downright foolish in approaching a strange, drunken man, even on her father’s grounds- but she wasn’t  _ stupid _ . 

 

The dark-haired Snow had provided that pitcher and cup herself, snuck into the room and stole her starry blanket while Ser Jaime broke his fast and even had Arya thank her for helping her with her sums last night in front of Lady Stark. There was a sour look to be earnt for the last but Lyarra had an alibi and she was sticking to it. Ser Jaime would be too, if he didn’t want her to spread all knowledge of him being a decent human being under that prickly exterior and holier-than-thou attitude.

 

‘ _ A meaningless threat to anybody but Ser Jaime Lannister, _ ’ she mused, sharply biting down a giggle. Lyarra swiftly corrected herself. Didn’t Old Nan say that if she continued in this bad habit, she’d end up with two fat, protruding lips like a fish monger’s wife? ‘ _ Why’s he afraid of the truth anyway?’ _

 

It could be that it wasn’t the truth at all but then why would the Kingsguard knight lie to  _ her _ ? She was hardly anyone important or influential… he’d said it himself when he noted that a bastard’s word meant little. Lyarra’s even less so than most, as she was a child of eight years alone. The research hadn’t decided it either way but it had leant a shred of credence to Ser Jaime’s remarkable claim.

 

The foremost book on alchemy spoke of the prominence the Guild enjoyed under the Mad King’s reign. It was evident that the writer shared many of the biases of the Citadel as it chiefly disparaged the fading institution but the facts still stood by themselves. Had it not been written an outright error, the Guild had delved deeply into pyromancy during the reigns of Aegon V and Aerys II. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the man that had kidnapped her aunt and led the realm into war, had even been born shortly before the Tragedy of Summerhall. Lyarra thought it a shame that the Gods had brought the man quicker through his mother’s womb. Had Rhaegar delayed by even an hour more, Aerys and Rhaella had have gone up with the flames as swiftly as did the other Targaryens. 

_ ‘Who says a dragon doesn’t burn? _ ’ Lyarra thought, a little sardonically. Had they died, there wouldn’t have been any reason for the kidnapping, the war, the wildfire plot… ‘ _ It’s hard not to pity him. _ ’

 

At least until Ser Jaime opened his mouth and that pity fled on gilt-edged wings to make way for irritation, exasperation and mild amusement. ‘ _ He’s lucky I chose to have lingonberry jam today. _ ’

 

It was sweeter than her preferences normally allowed. Lyarra tended to move towards the rich, tart jams instead, the ones with notes of bitterness and sourness under her tongue. Had he pulled his childish little stunt on another morning, Ser Jaime would have likely gagged on the acquired taste.

 

That was mean though and Lyarra didn’t necessarily want to be mean to a man that had done such a paramount service to the Crown and King’s Landing as a whole. Not that she was  _ certain _ but the second book did have a minor acknowledgement of the Mad King issuing a royal decree to map out the sewer system of King’s Landing before significant infrastructure overhaul occured. Of course, the upheaval of Rickard Stark’s burning laid waste to any of  _ those _ plans. Lyarra mourned as both a Stark, for her grandfather’s death and a  _ Stark _ , for the inefficient sewer system of the capitol that was known even here.

 

After she’d finished the second book, Lyarra decided that a break was to be called for. She’d been cooped up in the library all day, considering this matter (while feeling guilty for not taking it directly to her father) and frankly, the Mad King wasn’t light reading. A break was to be called for and while Lady Stark had  _ implied _ that she was to be cordoned to her quarters or the library for the duration of the King’s visit, she hadn’t ordered it. A trip to the Godswood was discreet enough to be accepted surely? And if Lyarra could find a few of the flowers in her book too, to press them down later and add them to her collection, then why not do so?

 

Her course decided, Lyarra hugged the herblore text to her chest, picked up the satchel that was her near constant companion since she learnt to sew burlap and marched out the door. ‘ _ Maybe I’ll find more of those lavender springs. Nothing soothes better pressed underneath my pillow.’ _

 

Lyarra took the steps with light feet, not even bothering in her familiarity to hold onto the side of the wall as she traversed the spiral staircase of narrowly hewed stones. When she stepped outside, she had to squint a bit as it was an uncommonly bright day and rather more dim inside the library. Unknown men were walking about, not one paying any attention to the Bastard of Winterfell, as she cut across the pebbled pathway encircling a white pine and onwards towards the kennels. Many were gathered in the courtyard, amongst them her older brother, who looked beyond proud to be standing there amidst the warriors. His auburn hair shown as a beacon even amidst shades of blonde, red and brown within the predominant black and though he could not see her, Lyarra threw Robb a wave. He’d prove himself well. He always did.

 

A few paces afar from him was that Greyjoy hostage her father had accepted… Theon, perhaps? The boy was ten years old, sullen and defiant and while Lyarra sympathized with his circumstances, she hadn’t liked the way he’d looked scornfully up at her siblings during dinner. She’d sprinkled a few crushed bell peppers into his dinner plate for that one and counted herself satisfied when his gaze became too teary-eyed to properly affect Sansa’s enjoyment of all the knights about the castle. One man to earn her wide-eyed admiration was crossing blades with Ser Rodrik now.

 

_ ‘For all the arrogance he has, I won’t disavow Ser Jaime this. He  _ earned _ his spot on the Kingsguard.’ _

 

The golden-haired man struck a dazzling figure in his armor of white and silver and even more so by the way he easily batted away Ser Rodrik’s weapon. Lyarra had seen Winterfell’s Master-at-Arm’s fight before, had even undertaken a few lessons from him on the occasions that Robb could badger them out for her, and she knew he was good. Ser Jaime then, was all the better, because as he parried the Northern knight’s blows, deflected his piercing jab and ultimately forced the blade from the man’s hand, he made it look  _ easy _ .

 

The dark-haired girl appreciated good swordsmanship, so she lingered by the tree, the shadow casting her violet gaze into inked pools as she tucked one errant curl back and enjoyed the match. The surrounding crowd erupted into applause when the Lannister knight was done, throwing out praise and adulation that he simply stood there and drunk in, akin to a blossoming flower absorbing the sun’s rays. Robb himself was particularly enthusiastic in his clapping and she couldn’t help the bright smile that crossed her face at her elder brother’s happiness. Hard emeralds traversed the crowd before somehow latching onto the little figure by the tree. They stilled on her curved lips and then, Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer and Lannister, offered an unbound grin of his own to the Bastard of Winterfell.

 

Not that Lyarra Snow saw this. She was already turning on one heel and heading towards the Godswood. Still, as she walked on, Lyarra thought that mayhaps added research wasn’t necessary. ‘ _ Ser Jaime might be a liar… but I don’t believe that he is.’ _

 

x

 

_ I blame Author376 for this. I had full plans to take a break from Lyarra’s love life but then we started brainstorming fanfic ideas and I couldn’t resist.  _


	3. On a Skylark's Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Jaime has story time and Lyarra secures a future lesson.

Chapter Three

 

_ ‘Why does he torment me thusly?’  _

 

Jaime’s mind fumed evenly between indignation and reluctance as he stepped through the stone archway of Winterfell’s library tower. The inner walls were made of a dark timber so old that even flatly lined against each other, they gave off the impression of creaking. The floor was made of the same wood but his calfskin boots left no sound on them as he walked past tall bookshelves gloomily lit by cylindrical copper lanterns. The room was ghosted, not a single soul willing to crack open the priceless tomes that Tyrion had assured him laid here in his last letter.

 

_ ‘He knows I don’t like to copy books,’  _ the lion knight thought sulkily. 

 

Tyrion was the one who transcribed passages to maintain a keen and ready mind. Jaime solved his problems with a blade or, failing that, a reputation that relied more heavily on his surname than he cared to admit. Rarely did he draw on a wealth of knowledge to illuminate his path, not least because letters had the infuriating tendency of flipping, ‘d’ to ‘b’ or ‘p’ to ‘q’, and his head pounding whenever he cracked open a tome. As a child, Jaime had reacted to this by sullenly refusing to read or write for pleasure at all. It was a habit he’d carried into adulthood and had his brother not been such a prolific correspondent, the blonde knight likely wouldn’t have read more than a handful of words a day.

 

But Tyrion  _ was  _ a prolific correspondent and his latest letter, considerately broken into parts with different colored inks to keep Jaime’s attention from straying, had begged for the last few passages of a certain manuscript. Casterly Rock held a partial water-stained copy of the work and his brother had been enthralled enough by the play to desire the rest. Jaime didn’t know why he bothered. It was a Northern work, all the endings there were the same: everyone dies and then Winter comes. 

 

‘ _ On a Skylark’s Wings should be here somewhere.’  _ Jaime half-heartedly picked up one of the copper lanterns and held it up to the shelf before moving on. He didn’t need to read the bindings, they were too thick to have held a play. ‘ _ Where are those damned maesters when you need them?’  _

 

Those grey rats had their noses poked into his business any other time. Or maybe that was just Pycelle. 

 

The Lannister knight continued wandering around the bookshelves, keeping to the hush of the room, as he slowly made his way to the back. Every few steps he’d stop and look into one shelve or another, finding tomes on subjects ranging from metalwork to breeding horses. There was an entire six shelves dedicated to architecture, another four on the development of machines. Why they had this knowledge and left the North devoid of any grand structures, barring a giant wall of ice, Jaime didn’t know. The circular room was larger than he’d initially perceived and not even halfway through did the urge to leave itch below his skin. Had it been anyone other than his brother to request this, Jaime would have been back at the training grounds now.

 

_ ‘I must be getting close!’ _ Raising his lantern, the blonde’s keen eyes tracked a row of slim volumes near the back. He walked closer, catlike emeralds focused unerringly on his prize, before a soft cry of pain nearly had him drop the copper device. A low oath flew out of his lips, nearly as fast as his spine stiffened and a frightened jolt spiked up his back, as his boots came into contact with something. 

 

Jaime scrambled back. Then, one hand safely on the pommel of his sword, he lifted the lanturn. “Snow?”

 

The orange-tinted flame illuminated snowlit pale skin, messy brown curls and dark violet eyes slitted against the light. Within the fire’s reflection, they were iridescent, alluring and strange in equal measure. The bastard wasn’t looking at him now, turned away from the glare of the lanturn he didn’t move, and instead sitting up, cradling fingers that he may have just stepped on. Bow-shaped lips pursed to blow air on them and between that gesture, those enchanting eyes and the fact that he had found her alone  _ twice _ now in shadowy corners of the castle… 

 

‘ _ Why does  _ she _ torment me thusly? _ ’ Jaime looked up to the sky for an answer. Only the plain stonework of the North stared back at him. “Stop sniffling, bastard, it doesn’t hurt that much.”

 

The words broke through enough of the child’s haze for a glare of utter loathing to be leveled to him. It had all of the fire of those baby kittens that Cousin Martyn pretended he didn’t hide in the Rock’s stables. Jaime indifferently crouched down to snatch her hand and, ignoring how insistently she tried to tug it back, judge the injury. From the knuckle of her longest and ring finger down to half the length of her hand was a blossoming shade of purplish-red. He had bruised her but nothing that wouldn’t heal in another night or two.

 

“You’ll be fine,” the blonde said matter-of-factly. “Don’t cry over this. It’s nothing.”

 

“Easy f-for you, to s-say,” the bastard hiccupped, trying vainly to pull her hand away again. Her other one reached up to dry her tears though and the crystalline nature of her eyes began to solidify to ire.

 

Perfectly eager to hurry that process along, Jaime debated how to help. What had his mother done when he had drawn scrapes as a child?

 

“Meep!” The squeak that left Lyarra Snow’s lips was high-pitched, sudden and certainly preferable to the tremulous tone of before. Any memory of pain stood fleeting as she transfixed on the lion knight’s sudden action. With surprisingly gentle movements, Ser Jaime Lannister brought her hand up to his lips and kissed each bruised knuckle before pressing them down on the back of her hand. When he released her hand, the bastard’s skin could have sprouted wings for how quickly she snatched it away.

 

“Ser Jaime?” The tone was utterly perplexed as those violet eyes took him in. 

 

Having already accustomed herself to his presence- and in the least flattering of ways, Jaime could privately admit- the lion knight assumed it was their location that gave the bastard pause. His mood suddenly soured at that. Yes, he wasn’t the most avid of readers but  _ she _ didn’t know that. 

 

_ ‘Mayhaps I should just leave her in ignorance?’  _ He dismissed the impulse as soon as it came. Jaime Lannister wasn’t the lion that his father wanted him to be but he hadn’t forgotten all of his House’s words.  _ A Lannister pays his debts.  _ Lyarra Snow may have thrown away a jug of his hard-stolen wine but she  _ had _ tucked him into bed and fetched him a pitcher of water.

 

Besides the honorable and dutiful Quiet Wolf evidently hadn’t taught his all-too-pretty bastard anything.

 

The blonde knight changed to a more comfortable sitting position and contemplated the best way to approach this issue. Eh, she was a smart bastard. Honesty would do. “If you don’t want to be raped before your five-and-tenth nameday, you’ll have to avoid being left alone in dark corners with unknown men.”

 

His wisdom dispersed, Jaime waited patiently for her gratitude. His response instead was a blank stare by violet eyes that weren’t blinded by the lantern’s glare anymore. Now they were an oddly enthralling mix of lit from below and shadowed from above. Thick eyelashes fluttered close and she held that pose for a moment longer, no doubt absorbing the advice.

 

Then they opened and looked downright morbid. “And after I turn five-and-ten?”

 

“What?” The Lannister had been quietly judging the possibility of shifting the lantern a few inches to the side- thus leading to the iridescent slits of before- and not getting caught by an easily-offended she-wolf, when the words came. 

 

“Well, I don’t want to be… inopportuned by men after I turn five-and-ten, either,” the Snow pointed out reasonably. “What should I do then?”

 

“Rely on your husband to protect you, of course.” Hopefully whichever poor lad got stuck with a wife that was as naive as she was bewitching, would have better sense than Ned Stark. 

 

Her lips twitched and yes, she was definitely amused now. “If I don’t have a husband?”

 

“You’ll have one,” he asserted. She was pretty enough to be snatched quickly, soon after her moon’s blood likely. As long as she had the sense to keep her mouth shut until  _ after _ her father escorted her before one of their creepy face-trees, the Snow would be wed. “Why are you even here?”

 

“Ah…” Her eyes averted from him as skittishly as a doe before a drawn blade and pale cheeks suffused with blood. “I merely nodded off for a moment.”

 

“Well, if you’re reading books like  _ that _ ,” Jaime observed. There was a stack of five or six tomes next to her, each one thicker than his own wrist. Then his eyes moved towards a familiar quilt with a shooting star etched across and… “Did you fall asleep here bastard?”

 

Her answer was poignant in its silence. 

 

Jaime internally debated tying the dark-haired child up and presenting her as a nameday present for Tyrion. She was small enough. His horse could probably carry them both without any trouble.

 

“What are  _ you _ doing here, Ser Jaime?” The bastard mulishly asked, as she recalled that she wasn’t the only one in an odd situation. In a manner that wasn’t furtive in the least, Lyarra attempted to pull the quilt behind her, blushing an even more vibrant red when he tracked her movement. 

 

“I’m looking for a play.  _ On a Skylark’s Wings _ . Do you know of it?”

 

Her eyes brightened in surprise and realization both. “You read Northern plays?”

 

“No,” was his flat response. Jaime angled his face away and then perhaps snuck a peek for a reaction. It appeared to be bemusement. “I wanted to copy a few passages for my brother.”

 

The bastard’s eyes cleared. For a second, he thought he saw a flicker of  _ something _ in those expressive depths but then her Stark features reasserted themselves with vengeance. It was with neutrality that she regarded him now. Jaime had grown up in and around courts. He detested that expression. She wasn’t even doing it _ right. _

 

He reached out and painfully tugged on her cheek. “Ow!”

 

_ ‘Don’t even try, bastard. Whatever mystery your father’s blood brings, those eyes will steal away.’  _

 

“Do you know where it is?” Rubbing at her cheek, the bastard offered a sullen nod. Jaime was pleased. “Good. Copy the last dozen passages and bring them to me before tomorrow.”

 

“And why would I do  _ that _ ?” Lyarra Snow had the temerity to sniff. 

 

“Because I will give you a single dragon for it,” Jaime told her. It was too generous for a single afternoon’s work but the prospect of offloading the onerous task to this bastard made him generous. Maybe he would visit her table tomorrow morn to pick up the copy. The jam hadn’t been too bad and he could steal a few more choice pickings from her plate then. 

 

The bastard considered this. He could see the temptation in her eyes and why wouldn’t it exist? Not even a trueborn child of the North would be allocated the same allowance as Jaime himself, as the eldest son of Lord Tywin Lannister. Then, despite the yearning in her gaze, she shook her head. 

 

“You don’t want the gold?”

 

“Ah…” The bastard ducked her head down. It wasn’t a recognition of his social superiority this time but a sudden shyness, almost sweet, in the gesture. “May I ask for something else, Ser?”

 

A bit of curiosity stirred within him. “What do you want?”

 

“A sword lesson?” Lyarra Snow peeked upwards, her bangs disfiguring those eyes somewhat, until an impatient hand pushed them away. Dark, limpid pools of violet looked pleadingly towards him. Any resistance Jaime would have had to the request crumbled then. Any desire to have a daughter of his own crumbled just as quickly. Those were dangerously effective eyes. 

 

‘ _ Do they really teach little girls to fight in the North? I know it’s a savage realm but still… maybe the ladies need to fight off bears and wolves and such? They really ought to have knights to deal with such problems.’ _

 

He didn’t know how comfortable he felt putting steel in such a delicate-looking child’s hands though… “You have to copy all of it?”

 

Lyarra Snow responded positively and before Jaime knew exactly what had happened, he’d agreed to tutor a bastard for a few hours by the Broken Tower before daybreak. He considered pointing out that this would be the  _ third _ time the two of them would be alone together before the thought that perhaps  _ he _ wasn’t a stranger to her occurred to him. That thought pleased him for some reason and it was with a better mood that he acquiesced to her further request of accepting the parchment there. 

 

_ ‘I’d want to keep my jam safe from wandering hands too, _ ’ Jaime reasoned. He didn’t have anything better to do now, so he trailed after her to the bookshelf near the back, watched her pick out a slim volume and then head to a writing desk in the corner. The bastard settled into a chair made for a fully-grown man, tucking her legs underneath her skirt on the seat, as she straightened her back. It left limbs bent awkwardly on maple-grained wood, a fresh parchment roll unfurled  _ sideways _ on the desk and violet eyes sliding over to look at him askance. 

 

“I don’t have anything better to do,” Jaime answered her unspoken question. He settled onto the floor, unclipping his white cloak into a makeshift pillow, as he stared up at the ceiling. Dull. Grey. Northern.

 

And now he was just repeating himself.

 

“Ser Jaime, I speak aloud when I copy papers,” the bastard hesitantly said, “It helps me keep focus.”

 

The lion knight batted the complaint away. He’d slept through warzones. A single bastard’s reading a play aloud wouldn’t have any affect on him at all.

 

“If you’re certain then.” Despite their limited acquaintance thus far, Jaime knew it would be a mild moue of disapproval directed to him now. The bastard had very precise ideas of how one should or should not behave. Now that he thought about it, the trout lady had them too. “I’ll be quiet.”

 

To her credit, Lyarra Snow kept her word. A hushed murmur filled their shadowy corner of the library, the innate gloom driven away by the softly sweet, almost mellow, tone of the bastard. It wasn’t anything as distracting as terrified screams or the sobs of dying men but somehow Jaime couldn’t fall asleep anyway. He lied transfixed as the melodious voice of _ Ned Stark’s _ bastard washed over him.

 

_ On a Skylark’s Wings  _ spoke of a Child of the Forest that became enraptured with a woodcutter from afar. The Child, and it was never made distinct whether it was male or female, had developed it’s fascination with the man from boyhood, when he stumbled past a Heart Tree and dripped blood onto the tree’s white roots. The tree had been suffering quietly from nibbling mice before this but the gift of blood granted the Child enough strength to repair its roots and banish the beasts away. The Child had been thankful for the blood but didn’t know that it had been an accidental gift, instead accepting it as a token of admiration for itself. Curious as to who its admirer would be, the Child cloaked itself in shadows and took the form of a skylark to visit the boy’s home. From a branch by the boy’s window, it would chirp sweetly to waken the child every morning and lull him to sleep at night. The boy treated the skylark kindly and fed it many seeds from his own hand, eventually building an affectionate bond between himself and the bird. Unknown to him, for every act of kindness the boy offered, the Child fell even deeper in love with the boy. 

 

As time passed, the boy grew into a man and in the way of men, found a lady love of his own. The Child was saddened by this but consoled himself, knowing that his love should be with his own kind. Their own affections could never be but the skylark knew that it remained the man’s most beloved friend. The bird kept its watch over the man still, as he took a wife, sired children and build a house of his own from wood cut in the nearby forest. A special birdhouse was built in the garden of the home for the skylark and there, the man’s children and occasionally his wife would come to feed the skylark more seeds. The Child accepted those offerings gracefully and for a time, all were happy.

 

Years more passed. The man continued to do well for himself, better than most even. When he traversed the woods, wolves would stray from his path and rabbits would run directly into his snares. His family and he were well-fed and warmed and the Child was happy. But then Winter came and with it, heavy and deep snows fell to the ground. At first, the woodcutter was not concerned. He had plenty of trees to keep his hearth warm and his family safe after all. Yet Winter continued from one year to the next and those trees that he could easily cut down began to disappear. Others fell to rot as their roots froze and yet more simply refused to grow at all. A pinch of worry fell to the woodcutter. 

 

Throughout this, the skylark remained steadfast by its beloved’s side. It led more beasts to die before the woodcutter, so that his children may have furs and meat aplenty. It kept the worst of the winds from striking his home, so that it stood firm against the Winter’s bite. It dropped blood red leaves from its own branches, so that they may bind the woodcutter’s frostbitten fingers and keep the man healthy and hale. On one night though, the woodcutter’s only son fell to fever. He shook and shivered in his bed. No matter the quantity of furs piled over his tiny form, the child could not be warmed. The woodcutter desperately tried to strike a fire in his hearth. He turned to flint and fabric, twigs and grass for kindling. None would catch. He cried to the Old Gods for an answer.

 

The Old Gods took pity on the man and sent him a vision of the Child’s Heart Tree. They meant for the man to dig between its roots, deep under the snow, for the loam mulch that could be set alit. To show him, they revealed that scene from all those years ago, when the boy’s blood was sucked deeply into the roots and used to repair itself. The woodcutter did not understand this though. He believed it was permission from the Gods to take down one of their sacred altars. After all, the man reasoned, it was his actions that had saved the tree once before, now it was the tree’s time to save him. 

 

Though his sickly son, a godly child, implored him not to, the woodcutter strode over to the Heart Tree. The Child that was peeking out through the tree’s face then was delighted to see his beloved. His delight soon moved to horror as the man took his axe from his shoulders with both hands and then, with one mighty blow, struck the trunk of the tree. The first blow dug deeply into the bone white wood. The man readied himself for the second blow but was distracted then by a cry of despair from the skylark sitting on the Heart Tree’s topmost branch. When the man looked up in shock, the bird struck down vengefully, digging his claws into the man’s eyes and blinding him. The man staggered back, bloodied and deeply in pain but the Child wasn’t yet finished. Its powers struck out at the man directly and delved deep into his memory, to discover the truth of this betrayal.

 

When it had learnt of what occured, it drew back and bitterly cursed the Gods for putting this foolish thought in the woodcutter’s head. However, the Child also saw the sickly boy in the cottage and how virtuous and godly the child was. His heart was moved. Despite knowing that its own life would be forfeit, the Child materialized before its tree in its true form and took the axe for itself. With a softer blow and blood-red tears dripping from its eyes, it swung to the trunk. The man heard the blow and still blinded, asked aloud who it was that was there. The Child answered in the soft trill of the skylark and the woodcutter fell to his knees, for he now realized who the bird truly was. The Child kindly lifted him back to his feet and forgave him, before asking his assistance in cutting down the tree. The two worked together to do so and the Child faded soon after the tree came tumbling down. With a heavy heart, the woodcutter turned the logs over to his wife. Once that was done, he walked back to wear the stump of the Heart Tree was, following a path he had taken countless times before to befriend his friend and sat down in the cold. He sat there for a time unknown until he realized that there were hundreds of skylarks surrounding him, each singing their own little song, to lull him to sleep as the Child had done when he was a boy. The woodcutter listened to the melody and let his tattered eyelids drift close. They would never open again.

 

Jaime waited until the bastard’s voice had dwindled down to nothing before he allowed himself to drift away as well.


	4. Lyarra Snow: Intrepid Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime offers a sword lesson, Lyarra goes for a swim and readers take a moment to meditate in silent thanks to modern child safety standards.

Chapter Four

 

“What is  _ he _ doing here?”

 

The surprised displeasure in the lion knight’s tone had the auburn-haired wolf recoil in disappointment, while his dark-haired counterpart glared. Jaime took a moment to congratulate himself that Lyarra Snow no longer attempted any social graces in his presence. Between the drunken exploits of their first private rendezvous and watching him drool into his white cloak for their second, she hadn’t any measure of awe or respect for him  _ at all _ . There was even an intimacy of sorts between them that Jaime was finding  _ not entirely _ awful, so he didn’t know why she’d bring a chaperone now. The bastard had undressed him with her own two hands; at this point, her modesty wasn’t really in question.

 

Obviously, she had none.

 

“ _ My brother _ is here for his lesson.” The dark-haired girl turned to a satchel made of burlap- she really ought to have accepted the gold coin, a leather one would be far more fashionable- and took out a tightly wrapped scroll. There was even a bow tied around it with a scarlet ribbon akin to the ones woven through her braid now. He’d have attributed the multiple ribbons to vanity but Jaime was fairly certain her curls were simply that rowdy and unmanageable. “I finished copying the play for you.”

 

“I can see that,” Jaime drawled. He felt cheated now. “But I did not agree to this.”

 

The Stark Heir, whom he briefly remembered was named after the king- Robard?- tugged at his sister’s sleeve. “Maybe we should leave,” he whispered, in a tone that wasn’t discrete at all.

 

“We’re not going anywhere,” Lyarra spoke archly, responding directly to _ him _ . Her eyes blazed with indignation. “Ser Jaime gave me his word and  _ he will be keeping it. _ Or he will not receive the copy.”

 

“Ser Jaime does not tutor little boys that haven’t gotten past wooden swords in the courtyard yet.”

 

“What did Ser Jaime think he would be doing? Sparring with a full-grown man?”

 

“Ser Jaime does not appreciate this cheek.” Catlike eyes turned to the Stark Heir for a moment before dismissing him to return the adorably flushed and puffed up cheeks of the bastard. “We’re done here. Hand the copy over and I’ll have a gold coin for you tomorrow.”

 

Where he would  _ definitely _ be helping himself to her plate. Bringing another wolf to their private lesson? What nerve! The Lannister knight felt a sudden and deep upswell of pity for the poor sod to be stuck with this intemperate child for wife. 

 

The male wolf, who had been switching between the two of them with wide eyes, suddenly spoke up. “Lyarra, why are you so familiar with this man?”

 

“I’m not familiar with him,” Lyarra denied, as Jaime tattled that she had lulled him to sleep twice now, after undressing him herself. The bastard girl’s cheeks lit up like Yi-tish fireworks at that claim, while her brother’s eyes widened to the point that the lion wouldn’t have been surprised had they fallen out. The older wolf promptly had his sister dragged a few meters away, their heads huddling together in fiercely spoken hushed tones that led to severe gesticulation and empathetic head shakes from the Snow child. Not  _ at all _ put out over being bored, the blonde decided to give into his itching fingers. Drifting closer to them slowly, he reached out and gave a forceful tug on the bastard’s hair.

 

‘ _ Huh. It’s silkier than I thought it would be,’  _ the lion realized, even as the dark-haired girl whirled around with a tiny shriek and kicked his shin. Of course, he had already equipped his greaves, the silver-white armor of the Kingsguard shining brilliantly against his sun-kissed skin, so it barely hurt. A minor sting that was easily eclipsed by the humor of Robb Stark shaking his little sister like a doll for suddenly going mad and attacking the royal family’s own personal guards. 

 

“Let her down,” Jaime murmured a moment later, as he reached out with one hand to separate the two. The trueborn wolf was pushed away, while the bastard was drawn closer to his own body. A gauntleted hand curled protectively over her shoulder, her body as slender as a willow reed and all the more vulnerable to his eyes. The short display of sympathy on the Lannister’s part seemed to have drawn the Stark to a complete and utter standstill, his mouth flapping despite each word dying on his tongue. The lion ignored that to briefly skim his gaze over the fuming she-wolf.

 

‘ _ Why do you do this to me, child?’  _

 

Jaime didn’t need an answer but as those violet eyes focused on him once more, he decided it was all Arthur Dayne’s fault. “I won’t thank you for this.”

 

“I don’t expect you to,” the lion smirked. “Bastards aren’t renowned for their manners.”

 

“Nor lions for any kindness,” she retorted, shaking his hand free of her person. Stung, Jaime receded and perhaps that flicker of hurt in his eyes caught her attention. Her own features wavered between incense and the compassion that lurked in every sinew of her body. Eventually even Lyarra Snow surrendered to her true nature.

 

‘ _ As I did mine. _ ’ The words shouldn’t have felt as forlorn as they had. Jaime was a selfish creature. Haunted, bitter, foolish… he hadn’t any doubts that he was consigned to an eternity of fire after this, should an afterlife exist. His lifetime had told him that all men were destined for such, even those as honorable as the Sword of the Morning. ‘ _ We don’t protect her, not from him.’ _

 

They’d all burn for their sins eventually. Except the dragons. They acted as they pleased in life for the Gods couldn’t punish them in death. 

 

_ ‘Dragons won’t burn and neither will Lyarra Snow.’  _

 

“My brother’s nameday will be in a fortnight.” The bastard spoke plainly, the soft, melodious voice that had lulled him to sleep had returned. “He admires your swordplay greatly, Ser Jaime. I know that he is a beginner but I would appreciate it, if you would take the time to offer a lesson regardless.”

 

Jaime looked down on her with hooded eyes. “I thought I would be teaching  _ you _ .”

 

There was a stillness to her body suddenly and a redness creeping up her skin that he attributed to mortification now. “How did you know?” she whispered.

 

“Don’t they teach all ladies to fight in the North?”

 

There was a minute shake of her head. Then her shoulder blades drew in closer, as though to hide herself. Jaime blinked at that for a moment, wondering what was wrong until he recalled Tyrion in the same position as a child. The bastard was  _ ashamed _ . 

 

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” the auburn-haired boy spoke up. He glared at Jaime as fiercely as Jaime had once glared at Lord Westerling when the man lamented Tyrion surviving a severe bout of flu as a child  _ in front of him _ . Not having any firm opinion of the little wolf before, the lion knight felt a small notch of respect form for the boy.

 

He needed to leave the North immediately. One wolf pup was the whim of the Gods, a second was marching into dangerous territory.

 

_ ‘How do you handle a frightened and shamed child?’  _

 

Suddenly regretful that he hadn’t spent any time with his younger cousins- Martyn was a crybaby, he’d definitely have picked tips up from there- Jaime tentatively patted the bastard’s head. “It’s alright? I still need to pay for that copy. Let’s have the sword lesson here.”

 

Lyarra shook her head violently, dislodging his hand again. Jaime inwardly frowned. Where did her sudden vehemence against his touch come from? “You can’t- I’m not a  _ boy _ -”

 

“I have eyes, Snow, and have, in fact, known that you were a girl all this time,” he informed her. “You’re also a bastard. Maybe a lady can’t be taught the sword but you’re not a lady, are you?”

 

The blonde regretted his words not a moment later. Her eyes widened, her lips trembled and the Stark Heir looked to be contemplating murder. He responded in the only way he could. He doubled down.

 

“A bastard name isn’t going to do you any favors in life, so you may as well take advantage of the little leeway you  _ do _ have, right? Besides, I need someone to spar against your brother.  _ I’m _ certainly not doing it. Not only is it so far below my true abilities that I take utmost offense but he won’t learn anything faring off against such a superior opponent.”

 

Turning away from them, he headed to the bundle of practice swords- he’d picked several to allow the bastard some variety in balance, length and heft- and selected two appropriate blades. It felt strange to have the chipped wood against his hand again. It had been so long since Jaime held anything other than real steel but these blades had a comfortable enough weight to them. When he looked back at his newfound students, there were two young wolves regarding him with astonishment.

 

Ignoring Robb Stark entirely, Jaime Lannister focused on the remarkable eyes of Lyarra Snow. They were lighter orbs now, brightened in unexpected emotion that blossomed into warmth. The bastard looked at him as though she hadn’t quite seen anyone like him before, similar to but not exactly the way she’d looked upon him the first night, after he’d revealed Aerys’ mad wildfire plot. There was a softness there that had him straighten his back and offer a sincere grin of his own. 

 

One that quickly acquired an edge of wickedness. 

 

“Now then,” Jaime all but purred. “Let’s work you through your  _ paces _ .”

 

x

 

Lyarra tucked her body between a spice racket to one side and a tub of freshly peeled potatoes to the other. It was a tight fit, even for someone as small as she was, but the confined space made her feel well-guarded and hidden. In her hands was toasted bread slathered in lingonberry jam, her third piece for the day.

 

‘ _ If only Father could see me now.’  _ An amused quirk of her lips was followed by another rapid bite. Lyarra didn’t often have much of an appetite in the mornings… or any other time of day… but she was ravenous now. It probably had something to do with the early morning swordsmanship lesson, her fifth one with Ser Jaime, that had just finished. The other ones had Robb present but he’d overslept today and it’d just been herself and the blonde. ‘ _ He’d be surprised my stomach could fit all this. _ ’

 

Until Ned Stark learned the reason for her hunger, then that surprise would turn to disapproval. Lyarra licked the jam off of her fingers and started work on a fourth piece as she contemplated it. Her actions thus far hadn’t been within the bounds of propriety. She didn’t begrudge her first meeting- it wouldn’t have been honorable to allow Ser Jaime to die in their keep- nor the second, nor the third. In the former, the lion knight had approached  _ her _ and for the latter, Lyarra couldn’t help that she’d fallen asleep on the library floor. Not even the first few swordsmanship lessons bothered her. Should she have done them? Probably not. But was her brother present as chaperone? Until today, yes.

 

_ ‘I should have left when Robb didn’t arrive after the first few minutes,’  _ the dark-haired girl admitted. But Ser Jaime had already brought out the practice swords and offered her a nifty lunge taught to him by the White Bull himself! And the Lannister was a surprisingly gifted teacher when one put a wooden blade in his hands. For all his claims that he wouldn’t spar with any children, the knight had even done a few practice spars with her and the swift and graceful movements he’d displayed had stolen her breath away.  _ ‘One day,  _ I’m _ going to move like that. As though the sword were nothing more than an extension of my arm and the wind a teasing friend to lead my blade to its proper target.’ _

 

Lyarra had been so enraptured that she almost didn’t notice daybreak until the early servants’ chatter rose in the sky. Ser Jaime had been aloof to them as he was with most else but the bastard girl had scrambled to put their supplies away and leave as quickly as she could. Her reputation with Lady Stark hung thinly enough for her to dread any news of this reaching the woman’s ears.

 

_ ‘Ser Jaime fears no man’s judgment.’  _

 

The bastard didn’t know if it was for the Kingslayer title he unfairly bore or if his nature was simply to dismiss the concerns of others. A bit of both, she supposed, and almost laudable in the brazenness of it. Lyarra didn’t have that sort of courage though. So it was in silent apology to the man with whom she presumed friendship that the dark-haired girl avoided the Great Hall and headed directly to the kitchens for her meal. Ser Jaime may have had the will to sit beside her but Lyarra lacked the nerve to be seen with him.

 

‘ _ It’s not out of shame _ ,’ she reassured herself once more. ‘ _ The eldest trueborn son of a Lord Paramount may be as brazen as he pleases. The eldest bastard daughter of one needs to be more circumspect.’ _

 

Prudence, Lyarra had found over the years, properly employed alongside compliance, forbearance and cordiality meant that her reputation remained untarnished. As long as the veneer of proper ladylike behavior cloaked her, she could be free to build her life around the constraints of a lord’s bastard, occasionally nudging a toe out of line but never within another’s judgment. The dark-haired girl had her books and her sword and as long as she maintained that behavior which was expected of her, she would be allowed to indulge in her desires in peace.

 

_ ‘Maybe I can indulge another pleasure now?’  _ She tightened her shoulder blades, feeling the telltale crack of sore muscles realigning into more comfortable positions. ‘ _ No one needs to know…’ _

 

Father was very busy entertaining the royal party. He wouldn’t notice her disappearance, not for a few hours. ‘ _ And,’  _ Lyarra reasoned, ‘ _ Lady Stark would prefer that the bastard make herself scarce.’ _

 

That sort of reasoning appealed to her and it was with a lighter heart that a fleet-footed bastard dropped from the kitchen countertop, starting a few of the servants that were cooking there. The older ones merely laughed it off, having gotten used to the Bastard of Winterfell springing up like a cheerful ghoul from the nooks and crannies and shadowy spots of the castle. Second Cook pressed an apple tart to her hand with the admonishment that he’d better not see another little wolf eating it and Lyarra promptly brought the treat to her lips, heart warming when that won her a smile.

 

She headed out of toasty warm kitchens to hallways that were only a measure colder due to the water from the hot springs piped through the walls. A familiar path took her past little known corridors and empty rooms, the main keep of House Stark once filled to the brim with multiple branches of kin whittled bleak now by war and winter, and to one of the side doors letting outside. When she opened them, air that she recognized as being brisk and chilly brushed past her bare arms. Lyarra didn’t bother to take a cloak anyway. Her body always ran a few notches warmer than those around her. 

 

_ “In my blood, there is fire, _ ” Lyarra sang softly under her breath. “ _ Steel in my hand, a crown on my brow. Don’t throw me into the pyre, a dragon will always know, how far still you go, little squire…”  _

 

Aegon’s Ditty wasn’t well-known in the North but there was a dusty, cracked volume of nursery rhymes that she’d gleaned it from. Perhaps one of the last in existence. Most books were written by the Citadel and the Reach had done its best to outlaw this and many other records of the Field of Fire. The melody was short so Lyarra recited it twice on her path and then once backwards just because she could. Robb and she had loudly sung the morbid lullabies to Sansa as a child and her guileless, sweet-natured baby sister had happily clapped along.

 

Oh, had Lady Stark’s expression been  _ precious _ .

 

Lyarra passed by the Sept, the Great Keep and the Guard Hall on her way to the Crypts. The footsteps took her past cobbled streets laid down by Edwyn the Summer King, a wall rebuilt more recently by Lord Benjen Stark of nine generations past and a row of straw-men that her father had replaced when she was only five namedays old. There were handkerchiefs tied around each one’s neck now, akin to a noose, and as she passed them, her feet slowed down for they bore the colors and messy golden sigil of House Greyjoy. At least she assumed the blob of golden-hued paint to be a kraken. 

 

_ ‘How unkind.’  _ Theon Greyjoy would have to pass the Guard Hall every time he was escorted to the Armory to equip himself for lessons.  _ ‘This isn’t befitting of a Great House.’  _

 

It wasn’t befitting for grown men employed by House Stark either but Lyarra had long since consigned herself to the fact that the only sensible man in the world was her Uncle Benjen. Even Father, bless him, had a few moments where she’d question the quality of helms in the Vale.

 

_ ‘Why do  _ we _ have to take the hostage?’  _ Lyarra bemoaned, not for the first time as she skipped over to untangle the fabric. How would landlocked House Stark teach an Ironborn sailing anyway? Would her father build him a little boat and let him sail it around the bathtub before bed each night? 

 

Once the offensive marks had been pulled down, she resumed her path forward, moving more hastily now for their was a steady anticipation building within her. Lyarra had practically broken into a light run when she reached the lichyard, reaching for the heavy ironwood door that kept the entrance to the crypts barred from outside eyes. It was difficult to tug it open alone- she knew she kept Robb around for a reason- but eventually, her insistent pulling had the door flung open, not a single whisper of protest escaping the well-oiled hinges. No one had heard her.

 

Lyarra looked furtively around herself despite this. A lie stood ready on her tongue about her desire to visit her deceased ancestors, a silent apology offered to Grandfather Rickard, Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna for reducing their legacy thusly. She’d visit them soon and bring flowers as well but now, she’d rather enter the labyrinth of tunnels built underneath the castle and reach the mineral water springs below. Father would very much  _ not _ approve of this.

 

_ ‘I’m a bastard, I can do what I want, _ ’ the dark-haired child told herself. Followed by,  _ ‘Please don’t let Father notice I’m gone.’ _

 

Since Robb wasn’t here, Lyarra didn’t bother to bring a torch. Her violet eyes adjusted eerily well to darkness, once even frightening the auburn-haired boy with how they glimmered in a room lacking any sort of light. He had quickly dropped that particular fear when his bastard sister took to jumping out at him through shadows, dark curls flaring out wildly and eyes glowing sinisterly.

 

Between her affinity for dark spaces, her lit eyes and her eerily pale skin, Lyarra liked to think that she was an object of distinct fright for any to stumble across her here. It would surely be more gratifying than her attempts at intimidation in daylight. ‘ _ Maybe I should add a cackle?’ _

 

She made a mental note to attempt it with Robb later. 

 

The dark-haired girl merrily made her way down spiraling stone steps to the first floor where the bones of House Stark lay. The vaunted ceiling of the crypts added an airiness to the room and the handsome statues of direwolves lying at their master’s feet only lightened the atmosphere. There was a hushed silence here, of secrets never spoken and stories untold, that brought gravity to that which gave her great comfort. As a child, Lyarra would sit patiently before whichever statue caught her fancy for the day, simply waiting until the stonework came to life and was ready to play with her.

 

There were floors before this but some killjoy of an ancestor decided to have the stairs barred from that point onward. Fortunately Robb and Lyarra hadn’t been deterred by such a slight to their plans of adventure. The two had scoured every inch of this room with such apparent glee that Lady Stark had had a hushed word with her husband about children and proper influences. It was one of the few times that Lyarra could remember her stepmother ever showing concern for her but unnecessary. Their delight had come not from the proximity of corpses as the adults worried for but a weakened part of the floor that had water drip above it for decades now. The timber creaked below Lyarra’s feet, an obvious sign of weakness in a realm that boasted strong woodwork and with a body as slight as her own. Robb had cheerfully jumped on that weakened spot for days, a single rope around his waist held by Lyarra, who frankly speaking, had her head buried in a book half the time. 

 

One day the floor cracked, the spool of rope unravelled and her elder brother yipped in pain as his harness tightened swiftly around his stomach. The boy had dropped through the floor entirely, only Lyarra’s burning skin against the twined straw keeping him able to look up into the lit crypts. He had been able to reach out with his hands and clamber out with no little trouble. Except for a stomach and Lyarra needing salve for her rope burns- they claimed to be trying to break in a new colt in the stables- the two had escaped without harm. Moreover, they had found a way through!

 

In retrospect, it was a minor miracle neither of them had gotten seriously hurt.

 

Ready with lanterns, ropes, wooden swords and sandwiches the next day, the two intrepid idiots with too much time on their hands snuck down to the second floor. It was made of well-built tunnels lacking in treasure but brimming with possibilities for wandering. Lady Stark had been pregnant with Bran then and Father had to march off to war, so there was no one to stop Lyarra and Robb from wandering around to their heart’s content. At seven namedays old, they weren’t completely reckless- an entire hay bale’s worth of straw had been twined into rope to lead the way- but they had been as adventurous as was their wont. They’d made maps of miles of passageways and empty caverns thus far and still Lyarra knew that a mountain’s worth of travels awaited them.

 

A few hidden spots had been discovered with true delight.

 

There was that one cavern filled with water-slicked stalactites and little brown creatures that snipped at their toes. Lyarra had brought a sketch to Maester Luwin and been told that they were called crabs.

 

Another cavern was only double her current height but filled to the brim with mushrooms that First Cook had very much appreciated that day. They had been given a half-dozen cakes for their gift.

 

Yet another cavern was almost circular, made of smoothened walls and with a small pool inside. The withered remains of a wood pallet and a rough approximation chair had made the two decide that this particular area had been inhabited once. By whom Lyarra did not know but she’d dearly love to learn.

 

Her favorite cavern was one of the first ones they’d found though. It delved so deeply, Robb was certain that they had reached a third level and declared this to be the Lyarra Snow level. They’d named the second one after him because Robb would only agree to jump on end on a pile of wood if their first discovery was named after him. 

 

The Lyarra Snow level hadn’t been explored in-depth but the entranceway was a stone arch inscribed faintly with what she was certain was wolves. If one traversed past this, they’d find palish yellow crystals jutting forward from the ceiling and the wall. Had one chosen to pry or chip them off and held them up to sunlight, they’d find them shimmering a delightful color, changing as they moved it around. Sansa had a necklace and bracelet forged crudely by her of these stones. Bringing a torch to this cavern would have each light reflect off of each other in a splendid display of the rainbow that was as equally painful to one’s sight as it was brilliant.

 

The main attraction of the room though was the pool. The very,  _ very _ hot hotspring that even Robb was wary of dipping a toe in. If Lyarra could live in that delightfully heated water than she was certain she would. Quickly divesting herself of her clothes, the Bastard of Winterfell gleefully ran across one of the biggest pieces of crystal, jutting out over the water as a springboard, and threw herself into the pool. Her body slipped through scalding water with ease and soon Lyarra was submerged, eyes open, into an opaque world of hazy blue that pressed against each effort-laden limb comfortingly. Any aches and pain that this morning brought, any concerns that she may have had with befriending a man such as Ser Jaime, fled away before this absolutely  _ delicious  _ heat.

 

Flipping her body underwater, Lyarra forcefully kicked her feet to propel herself downwards. Most of this pool had no gradient of color, inhospitable to plant and animal life alike. There were dots of color near the bottom though, five stones bigger than her own hands, arrayed in the sand like a clutch of eggs. As she reached the bottom, one hand reached out to brush over her favorite stone. A bold golden color that shimmered as treasure was supposed to do even within the heated pools lacking light. Her fingers fluttered over thin ridges layered atop each other before her lungs reminded her that she hadn’t yet developed the ability to breathe underwater. Twisting around once again, Lyarra moved back to the surface.

 

As her head broke the surface of the pool and she moved to lightly tread water instead, Lyarra decided that she would be practicing her cackle now. 

 

x

 

_ Probably the last of their interactions thus far. Jaime has to return to King's Landing soon and have his heart broken after all. _


	5. Taste of You on My Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime learns about lingonberries and Tyrion delves into acupuncture.

Chapter Five

 

“You’re here?” 

 

The surprise in his voice shouldn’t have affected her as it did but Lyarra ducked her head down in apology anyway. That it would hide her distinctive features from view was simply another benefit that she ruthlessly smothered the regret of. She had no cause to for guilt. “Hello, Ser Jaime.”

 

“Don’t hide your face away from the world, bastard.” A gauntlet-laden hand tipped her chin up gently to a lion with the most minute of frowns on his face. “Why are you here?”

 

“I-” The shout of the foreman yelling at one squire to pack the saddlebags had her amend the words. “May we move elsewhere?”

 

“If you would like.” The words were spoken neutrally but an undercurrent of disapproval followed. Lyarra ignored it as she did most aspects of her life that left her prickly and vexed, taking a short path through the kennel gates and into the Godswood. Even a few meters within the walled forests, the world outside of them dimmed and her troubles fell away. Soon her senses were narrowed to simply the scent of pine, loamy soil underneath her boots and catlike emerald eyes gazing directly at her. 

 

‘ _ Ser Jaime strikes a better figure outside of the sun.’  _

 

In the shadowy half-light of the trees above them, his armor lost the gilt-edged gleam of silver and his features the unforbidden beauty of a storybook knight. Returned was the man she’d found sick over the snow, the one that drooled in his white cloak and stole lingonberry jam from hungry little girls. Her stomach squirmed with that unfamiliar (and unwelcome) tendency towards self-reproach. To have neglected the former, the bastard felt little guilt, but to disclaim a friend?

 

“Are we stopping here?” The lion knight looked unimpressed. “If you’ve taken me to your heathen altar, you may as well do it in full.”

 

“The Heart Tree is beautiful.” The words came out unbidden, impetuous and sincere. 

 

Jaime Lannister’s lips quirked up slyly. “Prove it.”

 

“I will.” The bastard jutted her chin out stubbornly and then turned to delve deeper. Past trees older than dynasties fallen to wildfire and madmen, above soil teeming with rot and life, through pathways that had wind-whispers shake the leaves. Her soul was wound as tightly as a harp’s strings. This was  _ her _ faith, these were  _ her _ Gods. What right did Ser Jaime have to come here and judge them?

 

‘ _ Let him see the splendor of the North firsthand.’  _

 

When Lyarra broke through the treeline surrounding the Heart Tree, it was within the arms of triumph that she approached the weirwood. The gnarled face of an old woman shedding tears of blood looked appropriately fierce above the captivating tendrils of steam rising from the reflecting pool. With this against the golden but hollow splendor of the Southron Gods, the dark-haired bastard turned, confident that the lion knight would be impressed by this.  _ ‘What is he…?’ _

 

Jaime Lannister wasn’t even looking to the Heart Tree. Instead, catlike eyes burned with singular interest, as they focused solely on her. Not even fidgeting in place or keeping her eyes averted could take away the intensity of the gaze burrowing into her. Lyarra was almost relieved when he spoke.

 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” The words could have been arrows for how they pierced her heart.

 

Lyarra’s shoulders fell, arms folding around her, head ducking, body even smaller. “I’m sorry.”

 

The sincere approach seemed to have knocked all the wind out of his sails as well for Ser Jaime appeared flustered and mildly exasperated as he knocked his fist against her head. However softly done, Lyarra still winced and looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Stop that.”

 

The dark-haired girl cocked her head to the side in a questioning manner. Stop what?

 

The lion knight growled at her. ‘ _ Have I upset him again?’ _

 

“I’m sorry,” Lyarra repeated earnestly in case she had. 

 

“Why do you keep saying that?”

 

“I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

 

Ser Jaime Lannister had been kind to her thus far but Southrons could be fickle. He was far above her socially and Lyarra didn’t want him to develop a grudge against her for whatever she may have done. It could affect his relations with her father and she didn’t want harm to come to House Stark either. 

 

Life was so much easier when she didn’t have to navigate these social quagmires. Lyarra felt no little bit of relief that Ser Jaime would be leaving soon and her world would return to making sense. When lion knights didn’t hold tragic stories that made her heart hurt and tarnished her father’s name.

 

“You don’t want-” Ser Jaime’s shock and indignation was swiftly replaced by an unknown emotion found in a forehead furrowed and lips pursed. Lyarra watched quietly as those heavy brows came together in a v-shape of dissatisfaction and remained there. “All you ever do is upset me.”

 

_ ‘Well, that was rude.’  _ Lyarra offered a small curtsy as she reiterated her apology. “Is there anything I can offer for recompense, Ser Jaime?”

 

The gauntleted hand ran through his blonde locks, mussing up the intentionally styled hair until it was a disheveled mess that he appeared unaware of. The she-wolf personally felt this suited the man better but kept her tongue silent on the matter. “No.”

 

The word was short and clipped. Had Lyarra not known better, she would have thought the man’s tone sulking. But even with the glimpses of childlike behavior she’d seen thus far, surely Ser Jaime Lannister, knight of the Kingsguard, was too proud to brood as her youngest sister did? Nonetheless it was with a hesitance in further stoking ire that the dark-haired bastard drew out her gift.

 

“I wanted to give this to you.”

 

With both hands, Lyarra held out a tin container filled with the lingonberry jam that he’d stolen from her the morning after they met. It was covered by a handkerchief in sky blue, her most recent work, embroidered over with a skylark in threads of brown, white and gold. Around them, in leaf green, rose up strains of lingonberry shrubs straining with blooming white flowers and the occasional bright berry.

 

_ ‘It looks like I’m making an offering to Lady Stark’s altar _ .’ The unbidden thought took one hand off of the container and had the other bringing it down before Ser Jaime grabbed her wrist. ‘ _ He’s handsome enough to be the Warrior but if he spent any more time making those locks flow, he’d be the Maiden.’ _

 

Lyarra Snow had plentiful, heavy, rowdy curls that took hours to tame into sleekness. May the Gods damn Jaime Lannister for  _ his _ hair.

 

“You brought me a gift?” Snatching it from her hand without so much as a ‘ _ thank you’ _ \- not that Lyarra had expected much gratitude from the Lannister- Ser Jaime moved it around his hands, as though a gleeful boy on his nameday. “From the story? Did you sew it yourself?”

 

“I helped Cook make the jam too,” Lyarra bragged. Lady Stark occasionally had her join the household chores, ostensibly to practice for her own small keep one day but as punishment as well. Or even when the lady simply didn’t want her underfoot or seen by guests. 

 

“I suppose you’ll need this for when you wed some unimportant knight or the other,” the lion added indifferently. “Good for you.”

 

“My husband will be the most handsome, most gallant unimportant knight ever.” The dark-haired girl stuck out her tongue, recalled in the next moment with whom she was speaking and flushed. “I’m-”

 

“Don’t apologize.” Ser Jaime unbound the handkerchief and tucked it into his harness. Then he dropped the tin package in Lyarra’s hand and sat clumsily on one of the Heart Tree’s roots. “Feed me.”

 

A wave of incredulity washed over her. Even sitting down, gifting her with a few inches of height above him, Ser Jaime looked to be presiding over court on the finest of thrones. She looked down to the slyly-grinning man, his catlike eyes glittering even under the few rays of light to break through the shadowy gloom, and said, bewildered,  _ “I beg your pardon?” _

 

“Feed me,” Jaime Lannister demanded again. 

 

“Feed yourself.” Lyarra retorted.  _ ‘How is this man alike to anyone other than Arya now?’ _

 

“I can’t take off my gauntlets without removing the vambrace and couter,” the man said, in a tone that was far too reasonable for one demanding to be treated as a little girl of three namedays was. “I want to try the jam. Feed me.”

 

Lyarra continued to stare at him incredulously.

 

“Please?” The lion added that last word in bemusement, as though suddenly recalling its purpose. 

 

The dark-haired girl turned to the face on the weirwood tree, as though for guidance. A normally fierce expression, she had the unnerving feeling that it was laughing at her now. ‘ _ What do I do? _ ’

 

“We haven’t anything to spread the jam on?” Lyarra ventured carefully.

 

“I’ll taste it alone.” 

 

‘ _ He won’t be moving,’  _ the dark-haired girl concluded, after a careful study of the man’s stubborn features. Lyarra balked in remembrance of the men swiftly preparing the royal party to leave. If Ser Jaime didn’t return to them soon, they might come looking for him and  _ find her here _ . “You are a gods be damned child.”

 

“I impatiently await my apology for that slight.”

 

“When wights walk the land again, I’ll offer it to you.” 

 

A natural inclination to protect oneself socially met and  _ buckled _ under the colossal weight of vexation that Jaime Lannister inspired. Lyarra inwardly mourned the loss of reason in her world as she gingerly took a seat beside the armored knight. One more look of dismay to the Heart Tree- isn’t this the sort of indignity the Gods were supposed to save her from?- the bastard opened the tin can. Rubbing her hands against one of her own handkerchiefs- and tucking it swiftly away before Ser Jaime’s tracking eyes could have him steal it- Lyarra dipped her index finger in ruby red jam.

 

_ ‘I should have picked something more tart,’  _ she decided, turning and offering her finger.

 

With a grin that was entirely too smug, the lion leaned forward to close his lips around it. There was a brief sucking sensation before a tongue leisurely encircled the digit. Catlike eyes of emerald, darkened and intense, kept their demands on her attention throughout it all. When a glint of mischief entered them, the tongue receded and his lips opened. Enthralled despite herself, Lyarra stared, wide-eyed, for a heartbeat before slowly drawing her hand away. Jaime’s teeth flashed playfully as his lips came down again, capturing her finger in a gentle bite.

 

The dark-haired girl promptly jerked her hand away.

 

“There,” Lyarra said, cheeks reddening into a fair approximation of the leaves above them. “Done.”

 

“Thank you,” he chirped virtuously.

 

Lyarra resisted the urge to poke that finger into his eye next.  

 

Instead she rose to her feet, tempted to flee straight to the safety of the crypts and not certain _ why, _ and turned to regard him. Against the misty backdrop of the Heart Tree, surrounded by the hushed sounds of flowing water and chirping birds, Jaime Lannister looked simultaneously out-of-place and all too familiar. His cloak and armor had no place in the sanctuary of the Old Gods but there was a merry light to his eyes and an innocence drawn and quartered about him that had him fit in. Her stomach coiled with upset and uncertainty even as her features fell to the stillness that they most preferred.

 

The aloofness of her reaction stole the joy from his smile.

 

_ ‘Good _ ,’ Lyarra thought mulishly, ‘ _ Don’t drop into my life and turn everything around and find  _ joy _ in that, Lannister.’ _

 

The man known far and wide as the fearsome Kingslayer looked a little sheepish as he stood as well. “Should we return?”

 

“I will be staying here,” was her icy response. “You should return to the royal party, Ser Jaime.”

 

“Right.” The lion knight began to walk away from her. It was with coolly assessing violet eyes that she watched him, until against black bark that lit his golden hair into a shimmering halo, he turned. “Keep practicing. If you work hard, your swordsmanship may be tolerable when we next meet.”

 

Nonplussed, Lyarra merely blinked at him. “Er… As you say, Ser?”

 

He nodded in response and then just looked at her as though awaiting a response. When none came, he scowled. “Aren’t you going to say something nice about me?”

 

_ ‘That’s a compliment?’  _ The she-wolf inwardly smiled. ‘ _ From him? It must be.’ _

 

The ice around her heart melted despite herself. Damn him. “You were a fine teacher. I hope you have a safe journey home, Ser Jaime.”

 

“Thank you.” A smile without any of the mocking nature Ser Jaime typically offered fell on her. “I wish you every happiness, bastard.”

 

His final words said, the man turned and walked away into the treeline. Lyarra Snow valiantly did not roll her eyes until after he’d left.

 

x

 

_ ‘I don’t have any more left _ .’ The lion knight looked down into the tin can forlornly, as though it would miraculously fill up in response to his dismay. A polished sheet of reflective metal swiped free of ruby red jam looked back. ‘ _ How am I supposed to eat my bread now? _ ’

 

The simple answer would be with marmalade or another berry-based jam as he had done for years. Jaime found himself loathe to take that path though. He had gotten acquired to the taste of… whatever this berry was called. The Lannister suddenly realized that he had absolutely no idea what this treat was named or how he could go about acquiring some more. This was the sort of thing the bastard really ought to have fixed when she gave him his gift.

 

Piqued, the knight stood and walked away from the inn table. The Ivy Inn didn’t serve the jam he preferred, it had been a hard day’s riding and Tyrion had a bottle of his favorite summer wine but wouldn’t share because he was an awful brother. Jaime had been pleased to see his brother poking about the hedgehogs of Sow’s Horn, off with one mad experiment or another likely, and invited him to join the royal party. With how freely the king spent their father’s coin, the blonde doubted he’d recognize another mouth in the party, however well his dwarf brother rivalled the king’s appetite for strongwine. His happiness fled like fallen leaves before a gust when he realized Tyrion had summer wine and  _ wouldn’t share  _ with the scurrilous lie that Jaime had stolen five bottles from him previously. 

 

_ ‘I did not,’  _ Jaime sulked. _ ‘I took three and no more. It was the twins that had the last two bottles.’ _

 

In his offense, he’d refused to sit with Tyrion for breakfast and hadn’t even gifted him the copied play. Now that he thought about the script’s writer though, hadn’t the bastard gifted him twice? The jam was already done but the handkerchief…

 

Jaime hastily took it out and studied it. Yes! On either side of the skylark was raised vine-like tendrils of fresh green leaves and white, wilting bell-shaped flowers. He hadn’t a name for them but her fairytale hadn’t included any mention of berries, had they? They’d have no place here unless there was a sentimental reason for the bastard to embroider them in. ‘ _ They must hold the name!’ _

 

Satisfied with his conclusion, the knight grabbed the nearest squire on hand and sent him off to fetch Tyrion’s present. With a ribbon-tied scroll in hand, he sought his brother near the end of the inn hall, steadily working his way through a plate piled high with poached eggs and fresh fruit. In deference to the book on the table, the younger lion had apparently foregone anything greasy or liable to stain.

 

“I have a gift,” Jaime announced, dropping the scroll next to him. “It’s a copy of that Northern play you wanted.”

 

Tyrion looked curiously at the thick scroll and it’s cheerful red ribbon as he wiped his hands clean. “This is a lot bigger than I thought it would be. I’ll have it rewritten and… Jaime?”

 

“Yes?” He took another plate from nearby and loaded it with everything except bread. 

 

“This is a full copy, in beautiful script and with tiny illustrations on the margins,” the dwarf said slowly. His hand traced down a skylark diving down the side. “Where did you get this?”

 

“I bartered sword lessons with Stark’s bastard for them.”

 

Tyrion looked almost touched by this. He knew how much his brother hated teaching beginners. “I hope he wasn’t too awful?”

 

“She was fine.” The knight shrugged. His attention was focused on stabbing his sausage cleanly through and thus he missed the shock rippling through Tyrion’s face. “Can you look at this for me?”

 

When the handkerchief was presented, a pair of heterochromatic eyes, one dark brown, the other leaf green, studied it intently. The dwarf bit down sharply on his lips before they could pull up into a grin. “A skylark. How charming. Did  _ Stark’s bastard _ embroider this for you?”

 

“Yes but I need you to identity the berries,” Jaime’s tone was impatient. A fissure of uncertainty flitted around his body. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Lyarra Snow to be more than his little secret, kept away from the rest of his life. “Do you know what they are?”

 

“Lingonberry, of course,” Tyrion answered easily. “Now tell me more of this bastard.”

 

“There’s not much to tell,” the knight deflected. “Northern, bastard, likes swords and embroidery.”

 

“Come on now, Brother,” the dwarf coaxed. “I’m sure you have more to say of her than that.”

 

Jaime hadn’t intended to share more than the bare bones of his acquaintance with a Northern snow spirit. Not that he had many moments to draw on but of the paltry amount he did, he felt little warranted his brother’s ears. So naturally, within an hour’s time, Tyrion had his older brother sat down with a glass of his favorite summer wine, lips spilling every secret he had, even those Jaime hadn’t considered secrets until he suddenly regretted Tyrion knowing them. When he was done, it was with no small bit of trepidation that he took in the smile on his younger brother’s face.

 

Nothing good ever came of that smile. Whenever Jaime had seen it past, someone other than Tyrion always found themselves in a heap of trouble.

 

“What are you thinking?” The suspicion in his tone was perfectly warranted, no matter how injured his brother looked to be.

 

“That I need someone’s help to pull quills out of my dead hedgehogs,” Tyrion spoke with a straight face. “Could you spare another day here to do so?”

 

“I have work to do, Tyrion. I’m a member of the Kingsguard.”

 

“His Grace wouldn’t mind giving you a day off.”

 

‘ _ His Grace wouldn’t mind kicking me out of the royal guard altogether,’ _ Jaime thought darkly, though he was forced to agree. “I have no care for such matters.”

 

_ “Pleeease? _ ” For a grown man, Tyrion Lannister had never wholly lost that wheedling tone that would guilt Jaime into a round of dice or a rousing game of stickball (against others, his brother had only cared to handle the betting). “I really need those hedgehog quills! They’re important to me, Jaime!”

 

“Why?” The blonde knight wasn’t certain he wanted an answer but from the way his brother’s eyes lit up, he suspected he had already fallen to the younger lion’s trap.

 

“I’ve read of a Yitish medical technique called acupuncture recently,” Tyrion reported with relish. “They insert thin needles into a person’s body in order to relax muscles and promote healing. Now I don’t have any needles but I figured quills would work just about well. And my scroll did give explicit details on where I could place them…”

 

“I won’t be your practice dummy,” Jaime immediately refused.

 

His brother’s grin was filled with wicked glee now. “Lancel has generously volunteered himself for the role after I saw him rifling through one of  _ Aunt Genna’s  _ wine stashes.”

 

Jaime was impressed. “What an idiot.”

 

“I know,” Tyrion agreed piously. “I figure if I mess up and accidentally kill him, I’ll be doing our line a favor. One worthy of at least a gold medal awarded by none other than the Lord of the Rock himself.”

 

“Alright,” the knight surrendered. “I’ll skin innocent little hedgehogs for you.”

 

His brother’s answering grin was blinding and took much of the sting away from how easily the king dismissed him soon after. It didn’t quite make up for the bloody difficulty of actually removing those hedgehogs from their quills… Jaime reckoned his white cloak would never smell the same again… but Tyrion at least appeared enthused with his pile of thin needles. They rode into the capitol with little fanfare and split apart once they entered King’s Landing. Tyrion wandered off to find their unlucky cousin, while the Kingsguard knight headed to Cersei’s chambers. Had he looked back, it would have been to a dwarf regarding him with determinedly clenched fists, regretful heterochromatic eyes and the taste of lingonberry jam on his tongue.

 

Less than ten minutes later, Jaime found Cousin Lancel.

 

x

 

_ To clarify, Tyrion knows that Cersei takes other men to her bed when Jaime isn’t around and purposefully delayed his brother by a day while sending a note claiming two day’s absence. Also Jaime wasn’t trying to be seductive when he demanded Lyarra feed him jam. He was being his typical spoiled brat self and trolling her a bit. The playfulness was because he does consider her a friend.  _


	6. Venomous Eyes and Hopeful Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime proves he has bad judgment.

Chapter Six

 

Naked limbs were entwined under dusky shadows and slow-lit embers. Against silk sheets, sharp crimson as rose red petals, lay nude flesh, supple, pale, familiar and not, as they pressed against each other with all of the intimacy of lovers. Cast in a slight sheen of sweat rested the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, her golden cascade of hair thrown back against goose-feather pillows embroidered in finest thread and ruby lips curved in a seductive, teasing little grin. With them was a smoldering glance cast to a lean blade of a form, youthful and shone in the gold carried by the lion’s birthright.

 

Jaime’s eyes narrowed down to those catlike emerald eyes, mirrors of his own, directed to another. His world stilled to that little sliver of time, heartbeat plummeting as clawed fingers tore into his chest and carved the bloody organ out. His twin’s eyes flickered upwards, her little grin faltered and on those striking features so akin to his own, was cast a look of sudden surprise. One lost swiftly to an understanding that glazed them in icy dyes of venom. 

 

Her lips formed the name of their shared brother. “ _ Tyrion. _ ”

 

The Kingslayer couldn’t bother to think of that when it was a different golden-haired lion that turned over to him. His sudden tempest of shame and torment became consumed in fury. In less than three strides to cross the room, with a fierce heat blocking his ears to sound and Cersei flinching back in fear, had Jaime’s gauntlet fist flown forward and dragged Lancel from the bed. 

 

‘ _ What are you  _ doing _?’  _ His first punch cracked the soft cartilage of the boy’s nose, a wheezing gasp of frightened pain as blood spilled forth from both nostrils. Even Jaime couldn’t say who the question was directed to.

 

‘ _ Why did you _ do _ this to me?’  _ His second blow had Lancel thrown backwards, landing on as his ass and receiving a metal boot to his ribs.

 

_ ‘How could you?’  _ By Jaime’s third, his cousin had gotten enough wits about him to try and curl up, head tucked into his chest and arms wrapped around his body. It meant nothing. Jaime’s blows simply kept raining down, fists and kicks and knees, as the blonde tried to beat the source of his rage half-to-death. Bruises richly purple blossomed throughout that lightly tanned skin and stained over each other as spilled ink. The slithering beast in his chest coiled deeper and deeper around his heart, not a single blow delivering the succor that he yearned for. ‘ _ I want to kill you.’ _

 

“Stop! Jaime, stop!” Delicate hands untouched by any rigors curled around his shirtsleeve, tugging him away from the man that had stolen what should be only his. Jaime tried to resist but his twin insistently pulled him away and he obediently followed her directive. “You’re going to kill him!”

 

_ ‘I want to kill him. _ ’ A figure made only more lush from childbirth pressed tightly against his body. Eyes akin to his own looked up with a bright glint of triumph in their depths. Cersei’s lips were pressed against his ear, her hands moving swiftly to catch his own, body pushed forward and making him stumble back. ‘ _ Why would you choose him?’ _

 

“You need to calm down.” Her voice, lowly seductive, cajoled him. She whispered confidently in his ear, each word slowly smothering his ire. Promises that he didn’t listen to, as her heartbeat and his echoed each other in his ears. “You don’t want to hurt him. It’s alright. I’m here. I love you.”

 

As her slim hands made their way to his chest, Jaime suddenly recalled where they had just been and stumbled back. For a moment, all his world was Cersei’s gaze flashing in upset before a pair of violet eyes, contemplative and hesitant, took their place. A mature and striking beauty became softly girlish features, golden tresses turned to wild and unruly dark curls and an apprehensive grin quirked at him. A willow reed swaying in an armored grasp, he was suddenly beset by mellow tones spoken in hushed plea. “Please don’t hurt him, Jaime.”

 

“I’m sorry.” The lion knight responded automatically and the snow spirit was dispelled to his twin sister again, his perfect opposite, the woman looking at him with a proud grin to her painted lips.

 

“I forgive you,” Cersei promised, leaning up and pressing her lips against his. It was a familiar gesture to return it, passionate and slow and tasting of strawberry sweetness. Her arms wrapped around him, her body was pressed against him as they had since children and promises shuttered with each kiss and graceful caress. 

 

She was lonely. She missed him. She chose Lancel for his similarity to him. It was almost as though Jaime was back in her bed. She’d birthed their third child, another perfect golden lion babe. Wouldn’t he like to see the little prince? She loved him. Only him. She was so happy to see him. She wouldn’t need anyone else anymore.

 

“How long?” Jaime gasped out between her kisses, her touch, her scent, her essence infusing his entire world. He closed his eyes to keep those catlike emeralds in mind. “How long did you-”

 

“Once,” Cersei promised. A traitorous voice in his mind whispered that this wasn’t true, he quashed it. “Only once, Jaime. You’re the only man I could ever love.”

 

“I-” He made the mistake of looking at her and those iridescent amethysts returned. “I love you.”

 

It was an oath, a promise and a plea all at once. This was Jaime’s other half. He loved Cersei. He would always love Cersei. 

 

“I know.” No one understood him as she did. So when the queen took his hand into hers and led her to the bed just vacated by a black-and-blue figure lying prone on the floor, he followed. When she laid him against sheets that made his skin crawl, he obeyed. And when she leaned down to press yet one more kiss upon him, Jaime closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was where he belonged.

 

x

 

“Are you paying attention to me, girls?”

 

“Yes, Septa Mordane,” Lyarra chorused alongside her sister and the steward’s daughter, Jeyne Poole. The moment the wimple-clad woman returned to the  _ Seven Pointed Star  _ laid on her lap, the bastard allowed her eyes to stray again. She had heard this passage of the text, dedicated to the Maiden, about obeying one’s husband enough to recite it from memory alone. That was more than a little sad, considering she neither subscribed to the Faith nor had much of an inclination towards obedience. She blamed her bastardy for this, though even Lyarra could admit the true culprit to be curiosity.

 

_ ‘Why can’t I join Robb’s lessons?’  _ It wasn’t fair. Her brother got to learn all sorts of useful things while she was just reminded of her duties to her one-day husband. One she had claimed to Ser Jaime would be the most handsome, most gallant unimportant knight ever. ‘ _ Where does one find a knight?’ _

 

The simple answer was the South but Lyarra Snow didn’t particularly want to leave her home. Her first taste of the South had introduced her to such odd characters as Ser Jaime Lannister and the feckless mountain of a man that her father claimed as best friend. The dark-haired girl was quite certain she had seen the King fondle a kitchen maid at the feast and that had repulsed her thoroughly.  _ ‘Maybe the Bolton boy. Lord Roose sent his son to the Vale for his squirehood, didn’t he?’ _

 

Domeric Bolton had bypassed Winterfell entirely on his trip to House Redfort, which had not made the best of impressions with Lady Stark. Lyarra had kept her ears open to gather more information but hadn’t acquired more than the impression that the Boltons were being Boltons, as was typical. No House opposed the Stark rule in the North directly but the skinflayers did skirt the line occasionally.

 

_ ‘No, don’t call them that,’  _ Lyarra scolded herself. After she had misjudged the Kingslayer so swiftly, and had been proven shamefully wrong by Ser Jaime’s confession, she had promised herself not to judge by name alone.  _ ‘Though Lord Roose doesn’t make that easy with his pale eyes and leech jars.’ _

 

_ ‘Eh, you’re doing it again!’  _ She sharply bit down on her bottom lip. Then immediately released it. The she-wolf didn’t want a fish monger’s lips, even if she wasn’t certain if Old Nan wasn’t passing a log off as a lizard lion. ‘ _ My eyes are unnerving in a certain light as well and my hobby is to swim in pools beneath the crypts. If anything, I should align with Lord Roose as two fellow eccentrics in the world. _ ’

 

The dark-haired bastard attributed her inability to visit the heated underground reservoirs for her current unhappiness. As well as Septa Mordane’s exposure to the royal party reminding her of her duties. Typically Lyarra would attend a single session a sennight and the woman would stay silent on her skipping the remainder to attend her brother’s lessons. Now that the septa was newly invigorated to make a proper lady of her though, Lyarra was required to attend  _ every _ session. Hours and hours of pointless embroidery and discussion of a lady’s responsibilities, which she could far more concisely explain. Be pious, be meek, be fertile. That was lectures one through twenty altogether.

 

_ ‘At least Sansa’s pleased to see me.’  _ A fond smile crossed the bastard’s face as eyes took in a bowed head of autumn painstakingly working on her stitches. Her five-year-old sister had been inconsolable when Lyarra was allowed to move out of the nursery earlier in the year and she was left behind. It was touching to be missed so fervently, even if nightly braiding sessions played a part in her sadness. ‘ _ Maybe I’ll allow her to dress my hair up again tonight.’ _

 

Sansa Stark’s nimble fingers, attentiveness to detail and instinct for trends made her an ideal lady’s maid. Lyarra, who didn’t particularly like having her curls pulled and tamed forcefully, made less so suitable a doll, but for her little sister, she would endure. ‘ _ Then I shall steal her brush until she plays a game of tag with me.’ _

 

Lyarra would mitigate the damage of Sansa’s conditioning as much as she could, even if it killed her.

 

“And the Maiden said, ‘ _ Should you grant you alms to the Houses of God, I shall bless your home with many sons and each shall be fair of face and healthy of limb. Your husband shall rejoice for his line will be kept in the Gods’ Light for another generation by your piety and goodness…” _

 

Or Septa Mordane. That worked too.

 

Her gaze returned longingly to the window where slate-grey skies and dim sunlight beckoned. Washed of color, it was through scent and touch and sound that Winterfell came alive to her and nothing could beat the feeling of a chilly breeze against her heated skin.  _ ‘Is that Robb? What is he doing outside of lessons?’ _

 

More importantly, if her brother was  _ there _ , why was she _ here _ ? Father insisted on equal punishments between his trueborn children and bastard daughter and should Lady Stark choose to punish her, it’d have to be applied to Robb as well. As her elder brother was the lady’s firstborn and cherished son, Lyarra was looking at a few hundred lines and lost dessert at most. Well worth losing Septa Mordane.

 

“Septa? May I leave to the garderobe?”

 

“Will you return?”

 

“Of course, Septa,” Lyarra answered earnestly. She angled her head to allow violet eyes to glimmer in the light, a gesture that almost always won her what she wanted from the menfolk- and Robb- of House Stark. The bastard received a suspicious look in response but the septa gave her assent. Offering a wink to a curious Sansa- and receiving a pout in response, her sister knew she wouldn’t be coming back, smart girl- the dark-haired girl happily headed out and made for an empty room. Once there, she began to pull apart her dress, underskirt and overskirt revealing a simple pair of buckskin trousers. Her sandy brown blouse, all the better to wash stains from, remained.

 

Once that was done, Lyarra happily raced off to where she had seen her brother last, red ribbon braid swinging behind her. This was much more to her pace than embroidery and marriage talk!

 

x

 

“He did  _ what? _ ” Tyrion’s low hiss didn’t keep his hands from moving in a brisk and businesslike manner over the shallow cuts inadvertently drawn on his cousin’s body. It was blunt damage that his older brother primarily dealt out to Lancel. “Gods _ dammit _ Jaime.”

 

A liquid hazel green blinked blearily back at him. “You want to bed Cersei too?”

 

“No!” A shudder ran down the dwarf’s spine followed by a blank look at Lancel’s disbelief. “Is it that hard to believe that someone wouldn’t want to bed that viper of a woman?”

 

“She’s so beautiful,” was the mournful reply.

 

“Not worth this,” was Tyrion’s concise take on the situation. An orange salve spread across almost all of Lancel’s bared skin, making it look as though the dwarf was attempting to baste his cousin before a slow roast over the firepit. “Have you sent a letter to your mother yet?”

 

Lancel nodded obediently. “Homesickness and belly ache.”

 

“Good boy. Stay there for a half-year or so and I’ll call you back when Jaime’s anger has cooled.”

 

“Father will be upset,” the teen mumbled. “He wanted me to finish my squirehood here.”

 

“His Grace has a cupbearer so I doubt he’ll miss you too much,” Tyrion said wryly. “Uncle Kevan would be far more disappointed to learn you’re cuckolding the King, don’t you think?”

 

“Jaime’s doing it too,” Lancel pointed out petulantly.

 

‘ _ I know,’ _ Tyrion inwardly moaned. “When has Jaime ever gotten in trouble for anything?”

 

The boy took some time to think on this and, as he was too young to remember the repercussions of Jaime’s finest act, a dark-blonde head nodded in reluctant agreement. Tyrion took some satisfaction that he would be able to keep his naive cousin from Cersei’s grasp. Far better for the boy to deal with a tongue-lashing from his father and japes from the nobility of the Westerlands than beheaded because he was young and foolish and in the way of things, attracted to the most shallow of beauty. At least Jaime had fooled himself to thinking he was  _ in love _ .

 

_ ‘Why hasn’t his head been turned now that his heart was truly touched?’  _ Tyrion had been so confident that the mysterious snow maiden with the sword in hand and a skylark on her lips would have saved his brother. ‘ _ But then do I even know of how deeply she touched him?’ _

 

The Stark bastard had affected his brother, he was certain of it. Mayhaps not enough to withdraw him from the claws of the curdled lioness but there had been something changed in Jaime when he saw him last. A burden lifted almost as he walked with a lighter tread and a head held higher. The Imp suspected that seeing the young woman again would simply reinforce that initial draw. If only he could bring the lady to the Red Keep…

 

_ ‘No, I have no leverage with House Stark. _ ’ Tyrion noted grumpily. Neither would be inflict Cersei on any innocent maiden. Though he didn’t recall the wolves known for any beauty, so perhaps the plain looks of Jaime’s fascination would protect the lady from his sister’s ire? ‘ _ Something to look into later. _ ’

 

“When the salve finishes settling, wrap it all up in gauze,” the Imp instructed, tossing a ball of freshly laundered linen strips at the boy. “When you’re done, rest up in my quarters and don’t touch any of the books or wine. Or my spyglass. It’s  _ mine _ and I will show no mercy if you damage it. Understand?”

 

“Yes, Cousin.” Lancel’s tones were both tired and grateful, as he reclined on his bed. Tyrion would be bunking at the White Tower tonight as the salve positively  _ reeked _ . “Thank you.”

 

“Think nothing of it,” Tyrion replied. The dwarf of House Lannister hadn’t received any significant measure of his kin’s approval and their gratitude wasn’t any more expected. He had intervened here because he needed information and couldn’t allow wind of Lancel’s injuries to reach Pycelle, and thus, his Father’s, ears but he was pleased also to patch the boy up. While foolish, Lancel didn’t have it in him to be expressly cruel. “Think it all a nightmare and know that if you speak, our family shall make it so. And trust me, you’d rather Jaime’s fists than whatever Cersei will plan for you should you ever boast of bedding her.”

 

His final warning given, Tyrion closed his medical kit- truly a box filled with odds and ends that he acquired when the fancy took him- and left the room. His awkward limbs didn’t allow him to walk a pace that kept up with his mind, so he delved into the possibilities laid open to him as he sought to achieve his current goal. Ideally, Jaime would be separated from Cersei and in another lady’s arms. If not the Stark bastard than one of a similar appearance could be acquired from a court. There were plenty of plain-faced brunettes around. The Westerlings had more of them than he could count.

 

_ ‘But not many ladies would know how to fight.’  _ Tyrion had gotten the impression that his brother was mystified and intrigued by that skill.  _ ‘Maybe I should focus on calligraphy and sketching instead.’ _

 

If only he knew more about the bastard! Jaime had been unexpectedly cagey when discussing her but while he had pried out plenty of knowledge, it wasn’t enough. He wouldn’t have any opportunities to observe the maiden himself either. How unfortunate. Tyrion didn’t want to toss just any lady in his brother’s direction. The Gods knew that technique hadn’t worked for his father.

 

Ooh, maybe he could dangle the promise of a gooddaughter to have Father fund an expedition North?

 

It was a tantalizing possibility but he swiftly dismissed it. Lord Tywin Lannister would not be pleased to be offered a bastard and even less so, when a betrothal offer was rejected by his son. Jaime hadn’t been fully cleansed of their dear sister’s venom yet. ‘ _ Shame, I could have copied more of those plays. _ ’ 

 

Tyrion’s brain practically screeched to a stop. He stilled in the hallway.

 

“I’m a genius!” the dwarf proudly exclaimed. 

 

‘ _ I’ll just send a letter to my future goodsister!’  _

 

Truly his own brilliance astounded him sometimes. Ignoring the odd looks the guards, servants and courtiers in the hall were sending him now, Tyrion happily increased his limited pace and headed directly to the ravenry.  _ ‘Don’t worry Jaime. I’ll arrive with reinforcements soon!’  _

 

And until then? He snagged a passing servant and arranged for two servings of sliced brioche slathered in lingonberry jam to be sent to the White Tower. Not a bad bet to have a bribe ready when he had to wheedle Jaime into taking a pallet for the night.

 

x

 

_ Very awkward transition chapter. I’m adding it mostly so the story could go on since it’s been on my laptop for a week now and I haven’t been able to add anything else without cutting it soon after. _


	7. Jaime's Unintentional Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister gains perfect revenge- albeit unintentionally- for the pigeon-racing operation in his quarters.

Chapter Seven

 

It took less than a fortnight after the royal party left Winterfell for it to return to the normal quiet efficiency and understated warmth of her childhood home. Lyarra soon fell to the daily patterns of her life before Ser Jaime entered it and while she occasionally thought of the infuriating lion knight, particularly when she found herself with a practice blade in hand, he was often absent from her mind. Her days were instead filled with her brother’s lessons, clandestine swims, thrilling adventures and as many books as she could read in a day. It was a sedate sort of life that the dark-haired bastard found contentment in and little reason to challenge until, of course, Jaime Lannister chose to inopportune her easy existence  _ again _ .

 

Within an hour of breakfast being concluded, Lord Stark summoned his two eldest children to his solar. On the expansive desk before him was a pristine white parchment written upon in dark ink and with parts still touched by the blood red wax that had been used to seal it. Lyarra didn’t need more than a single glance to realize from whom it could have flown and immediately, any denials of forbidden visits to the crypts died on her tongue.

 

Inwardly the bastard bemoaned the arrogant man that she had befriended. ‘ _ A full-grown man, a famous blade and the son of a lord paramount, you can do whatever you desire to! I don’t have that freedom and it’s galling that you would pretend that I do! _ ’

 

Unless Ser Jaime didn’t know the risks this would pose to her reputation, which was somehow even  _ worse _ .

 

“Lyarra, is there any reason why you would accept scribe services for House Lannister?” Ned Stark spoke in that gentle yet firm tone that was ostensibly a request but one that demanded compliance.  

 

The dark-haired girl shuffled her feet nervously. This wasn’t as bad as the  _ disappointed _ tone but the dreaded one often followed swiftly on this one’s feet. “Ah…”

 

Dark grey eyes turned to Robb next and prompted. “Anything that you would like to share, son?”

 

A shock of nerves and worry skittered across her spine. She loved her brother but she couldn’t allow his blunt words to misconstrue what had happened! “Ser Jaime desired to copy a play on request from his brother,” she blurted out. “ _ On a Skylark’s Wings _ . He found me in the library and offered me a gold dragon to do so instead.”

 

Not that Lyarra had accepted. She had bartered for swordsmanship lessons instead but hopefully her remarkably  _ naive _ friend hadn’t admitted to that. “It was an easy task, Father, and the lions throw around their coin so easily. I hadn’t wanted to refuse but I didn’t allow anyone else to see as I made the transaction either.”

 

“That does explain why another two gold dragons were offered to copy  _ By the Minstrel’s Songs  _ and  _ The Complete Adventures of Danny Flint  _ then,” Ned observed. “As well as a request for a catalogue of the plays and other literary texts found in Winterfell’s library from Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

 

He pushed the letter forward and Lyarra saw that two gold coins were affixed to the parchment byway of additional wax and that the script was exceptionally polished and proper, the writing of a scholar. Befitting the sort of man to request the play from before though why would he write to  _ her _ ?

 

“Tyrion Lannister?” Lyarra murmured in confusion as Robb exclaimed his surprise over the amount offered. The bastard quickly added to the surprise to draw attention away. “An entire dragon! I know that Southrons spend coin as freely as an Umber would drink hard ale but this is absurd, Father. They cannot be so rich to offer so much?”

 

The deep, reverberating chuckles of the Warden of the North filled the room and the dark-haired girl relaxed minutely. Good, he wasn’t upset with her. “While I’m sure a fiscally responsible Southron exists  _ somewhere _ , I’ve not met a young lord that’s acquired the ability. Nor apparently the good manners to address you properly. It was written to  _ Ned Stark’s Bastard,  _ if you would believe it?”

 

“I will trust my lord father’s word on the matter,” Lyarra deadpanned. Yes, she absolutely could believe such irreverence from close kin of Jaime Lannister. Her father’s expression danced with humor as well. “May I accept the commission, Father?”

 

Ned Stark contemplated this for a minute. While such work wasn’t improper in the North and the spirit of industriousness and resourcefulness it implied spoke well of the lady doing so, any labor of the hands would be shunned by the Riverlands and Vale. As his lady was from one realm and he had squired in another, Lyarra found herself holding her breath in anticipation of a response. She hoped it would be positive. That was a  _ revolting _ amount of wealth to simply throw away. 

 

Thankfully, her father proved himself a true Northman a moment later. “You may.”

 

A wide grin crossed Lyarra’s features, one she didn’t bother to hide. Two whole gold pieces! And if she was lucky, further commissions from a lordling that evidently didn’t know the true value of his father’s wealth. She did need more copper lanterns, wax candles and flint and steel for her caverns. 

 

“I will have to read any correspondence between the two of you, of course,” her father added and she nodded her head for this was an entirely reasonable request. “Why did Ser Jaime request your assistance in copying the play?”

 

_ ‘Dammit, back into dangerous territory,’  _ Lyarra mused. “I do not know, Father. Perhaps it was laziness? If he had so much gold as to offer a whole dragon, he must not consider his time valuable enough to do menial work?”

 

She hadn’t told a lie when she claimed that the payment offered was a gold dragon. She hadn’t told the full truth either but she hadn’t  _ lied _ . 

 

“Then you two may be dismissed for your lessons.” Her father awarded her with one of his rare smiles, filling her stomach with pride that warmed her without need of cloak or scarves. “While your sense of initiative is admirable, Lyarra, I do not want you to focus on this to the detriment of your lessons. If Maester Luwin reports any slipping, then I will be forced to end this arrangement. Understand?”

 

“Yes, Father,” she chirped and after taking the beautiful parchment in hand, followed Robb out the door. “Thanks for keeping quiet.”

 

“I’m no snitch.” Her brother shrugged and then turned a concerned glance upon her. “Are you sure you want to accept the lord’s offer? It won’t benefit your marriage chances if it’s known that you- Ow!”

 

Lyarra swung the hand she’d used to smack his head back and forth for a few moments before, with a disgusted expression, dragging it across her tunic. Ew, Robb was using _ pastes _ for his hair now. “You’re speaking like a Southron again, brother.” She tentatively raised her hand and sniffed it. Winter roses. “Smelling like one too.”

 

A soft reddish cast took to his face. As he hadn’t quite lost his baby fat, it left the rounded cheeks apple red and all too adorable. “Nothing wrong with looking proper,” he mumbled quietly.

 

Lyarra snorted. “There’s looking proper and there’s smelling nicer than half the ladies that chase you around.” She leaned forward and flicked his nose. “Don’t use it when the Mountain Clansman visit.”

 

“Why would they?” Robb inquired after wrinkling his nose at her gesture.

 

“Another dispute between Clans Norry and Wull,” Lyarra groaned. “I don’t know how they could have so many of them after this many marriages. They’re  _ kin _ now, what does it matter whose goats graze where?”

 

“Have you ever met our sisters?” Robb asked rhetorically. Considering that she could hear the dulcet tones of Sansa rise up in a wail, soon followed by Arya’s shrieks of gleeful mischief, she admitted he had a point. The dark-haired bastard still huffed for the point of it. “No Sept?”

 

“Not for the next sennight  _ at least _ ,” Lyarra said authoritatively. “You’ll probably have to wrestle with one of the boys too.” She grinned at his expression of dismay. “Now, now, Robb. This is your  _ responsibility _ as the future Lord of Winterfell.”

 

“And as the future Lord of Winterfell’s closest advisor, I expect you to have bruise ointment ready for me after the  _ good fun _ is had.”

 

“Of course, Robb,” Lyarra spoke with sincere fondness, as she slipped her arm around his. “Anything for my dearest brother.”

 

x

 

Jaime adjusted his vambrace until the metal was better-adjusted against his wrist and fell more naturally down the lines of his arm. This was an old suite of armor more ornate than his common wear and typically reserved for the tourneys where he had to strike an intimidating figure as the Kingslayer. He had worn it before, jousted in it often, but it felt almost-but-not-quite fitting now. Just as the life he’d slipped back to in King’s Landing felt almost-but-not-quite fitting anymore. 

 

“Ser Jaime, are you ready for our bout?” Meryn Trant wasn’t a man that the knight had ever had particular emotions for before. Sly and cruel, Trant was still an indifference to him, a lack of a threat that mostly earned a measure of self-scorn for being a fellow brother-in-arms. Now as he looked at him, Jaime was suddenly beset by suspicion and concern. Did Trant also sleep with Cersei? Had his twin ever taken this cold-hearted man to bed when he wasn’t around to slake her lusts? “Brother?”

 

“Do not refer to me by that term,” Jaime answered coldly, deciding his armor was worn well-enough. “Only one man has that right and I see no hide nor hair of him today.”

 

No doubt Tyrion had squirreled himself away in one of the many hidden corners of the library surrounded by two of his three greatest loves in life, books and wine. His brother had claimed his bed on the first night of their return after Jaime had found- well, Tyrion had claimed the bed and despite Lance- his cousin’s return to the Westerlands, he still kept it. He had also adopted the habit of following him around and reading on the floor next to wherever he’d been assigned to guard the king. The golden-haired knight had doubts to his intimidation when a dwarf was chuckling over the antics of Florian the Fool at his feet while he stood guard but the remainder of their family denied Tyrion so often that Jaime had rarely been able to do so himself. 

 

It had interrupted his typical schedule of trysts with Cersei though. While Tyrion was well-aware of his habits, they both pretended otherwise and doing so directly under his brother’s judgmental gaze affected Jaime’s temperament. He swore those mismatched hues only added to the moral disapproval his drunken whoremonger of a brother could exude. Adding to that was his antsy concern that if Jaime were not there to care for his twin’s needs,  _ someone else would be _ . 

 

“Let us finish this bout then.” Jaime took a few strides to the white destrier in crimson and gold blanket and saddle that he rode. He didn’t often ride practice bouts before one of the king’s tourneys but the prospect of hitting someone with a lance appealed to him very much today.  _ ‘I was right.’ _

 

Leaning forward on White Knife, letting the wind whistle against his gleaming helmet as his steed galloped and his body braced for impact, was cathartic. Striking the silhouette of a hanging man on Meryn’s dark blue shield was even more satisfying, as was the thump of his body as it flew through the air and landed on hard packed sand and soil. A sharp breath escaped his lips, triumphant stirring under his breastplate, as he sharply pulled on the destrier’s reins to turn his horse around. 

 

The blonde knight looked around, a quip on his tongue, ready to be loosed as an arrow volley to dark violet eyes that shimmered as no common ones should before he was reminded that snow spirits remained in cold and isolation far from the life and bustle of the Red Keep. Perhaps it was better that way. The viper’s nest that was King’s Landing would have devoured his little snow spirit alive, taken that light of innocence that had her approach a fallen man in her father’s courtyard at night and stained to be more reflective of the true world around him. The Red Keep was not for the likes of Lyarra Snow.

 

‘ _ It is for men such as I _ ,’ Jaime reminded himself, handing his reins over to one of the stable boys. He’d had the same one for years now but didn’t think he’d ever learned the boy’s name. Not that it mattered, this was a task the boy was ordered to do and exchanging pleasantries didn’t make his work any less of a burden. He’d thought the bastard would have asked though. “Thank you?”

 

The lion knight waited a heartbeat for a response but when none was forthcoming, other than a blatant look of astonishment, he inwardly shrugged and walked away. Expecting all of the little folk to be as clever as his bastard was likely an overly optimistic frame of mind on his part. His natural cynicism reasserted itself quickly as he walked down the hallways of the Keep. There were all of the normal gazes averting themselves, the palpable distrust and wariness, as well as the awe of the lion on the tunic of his breast and lust for his golden hair and emerald eyes. This felt almost-but-not-quite right and Jaime’s pace quickened as he felt that minor but distinct uncertainty in his own life. Then his brother appeared and naturally he became too exasperated by the younger lion to think overmuch. 

 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” He didn’t think there would ever be enough emotion to convey just how  _ done _ he was with Tyrion now. If this answer wasn’t acceptable, he’d track down one of the dusty catapults in the royal cellar and  _ throw _ the dwarf back to the Rock.

 

“I’m training pigeons!” Tyrion cheerfully reported, still on his knees on the floor of Jaime’s room. His pallet had been shoved aside and chalk used to draw lines on the floor. As his brother tossed a piece of bread forward, the center pigeon flew to catch it, managing to stay mostly in its narrow corridor drawn. A length of fabric tied between its claws and a peg on the floor- Jaime choked.

 

_ “Did you hammer that into the floor?!”  _

 

“I did,” was the virtuous response. “But Jaime, it’s alright. I spoke to the king about it and he decided it didn’t matter!”

 

“And if  _ I _ spoke to the king to reaffirm his words?”

 

Mismatched eyes nervously slid away and his brother chuckled. “He may be too drunk to remember?”

 

“Of course, he would.” The knight carefully walked around the birds- he’d never liked pigeons or those beady eyes of theirs- to where his clothes chest rested. When he opened it to find the shredded remains of a forest green tunic, his lips thinned. “ _ Tyrion _ .”

 

“You sound as Father often does when you speak like that.” Horror at the resemblance had Jaime drop the expression immediately. “It’s a little amusement, brother, it won’t hurt anybody. And if I train these birds enough, I could use them in the festival games that are coming up.” A pair of green and black eyes stared at him hopefully. “Can I keep them, Jaime? Please?”

 

His natural offense warred against decades of indulgence until the former admitted defeat. “You’re feeding them and cleaning up after them and if any of those bloody menaces get loose, I  _ swear _ Tyrion, you will be eating pigeon pie until the tourney is over. Understand?”

 

“Perfectly,” his brother grinned, having a little fist bump of triumph. “While you’re over there, can you pass me the letter on your desk? I recently received some correspondence and hadn’t a chance to look at it yet.”

 

Jaime obediently turned to do so, ready to pass on this letter and then splay himself out for a good and proper bed rest, until the handwriting caught his eye. Specifically one sharp and spidery and lacking any flourish as any good little Northern bastard should have, cramped to take advantage of every shred of bare parchment. A writing that caused a cold chill to run down his back. “Why do you have this?”

 

“The letter? I don’t know,” Tyrion looked puzzled. “I haven’t read it yet but I’ll assume it’s my innate allure drawing others to inquire after my health and pick my brain for its brilliance.”

 

Jaime shot his brother a swift glance of warning. For once, the dwarf fell silent. “Why are you writing  _ her _ ?”

 

If there was stress on the word or melancholy in him, then Jaime didn’t give it any consideration.

 

Tyrion swallowed. “I wanted additional manuscripts and since she’d done so well the first time, I offered her payment for two plays and she returned them to me within days of when she received the letter. Her father added a postscript requesting that further exchanges include her given name.”

 

“You’re paying her to do work for you?” Jaime lowered his hand, the letter still tightly held in his grasp. “Don’t do that. You know how it looks when a lady does menial work.” 

 

Even if the Quiet Wolf insisted on hiding his bastard away from the royal party, he shouldn’t have allowed her to do  _ this _ . Lyarra was a lord paramount’s daughter albeit born on the wrong side of the sheets and while he’d made the folly of offering the first time, Jaime now considered it wise on her part to have refused. If his brother spoke truly though, it may not have been wisdom at all.

 

_ ‘Why did I expect any better from a lady that drags a knight to bed and undresses him by firelight?’ _

 

Not for the first time, Jaime pitied the lad to be saddled with an idiot like her for a bride. Though she may not even be wed at all should this escape the walls of Winterfell. Truly Ned Stark’s incompetence was galling. “Why did she write you a letter too? This is too small for any written manuscripts.”

 

Another thought occurred to him and his catlike eyes narrowed as a predator would before his prey. “Why did you disclaim knowledge and then admit that the letter included a postscript from Stark?”

 

“All delightful questions,” Tyrion exclaimed. “You’re in fine form today, brother.”

 

“Answer my questions, Tyrion,” Jaime ordered. His eyes flickered distastefully to the birds. “Unless you’d rather have pigeon pie for dinner tonight?”

 

His brother paled. “Now let’s leave the birds out of this. They’re innocents.”

 

_ ‘As is Lyarra, _ ’ Jaime thought. A frown crossed his face. “Don’t write to her, brother. It’s inappropriate.”

 

He considered the matter closed and turned to find an unshredded tunic to change into, ignorant of the look of blatant disbelief tossed in his direction, as well the low whisper question when  _ Jaime _ had ever cared of propriety. When he turned around again, bare-chested and having released the letter to undress, he’d found that his brother had stolen in away. “Tyrion!”

 

“It’s my letter!” The Imp defensively claimed. “And I’m not writing to your Northern bastard, I’m writing to her brother, the Stark Heir. That his missives tend to be in a lady’s script isn’t my fault.”

 

“Give me the letter,” Jaime held his hand out. After a few minutes where Tyrion pointlessly plead his case byway of teary eyes, the letter was begrudgingly handed over. One glance revealed that such tiny, perfect handwriting couldn’t be read by him and so Jaime shamelessly handed it back. “Read the letter to me.”

 

Mumbling ‘tyrant’ under his breath, Tyrion did so. A number of polite banalities was infused with an inquiry to the quality of her work and an expression of gratitude for being requested for the commission. She even referenced him once in a line that was almost teasing enough to be pert. 

 

_ ‘I’m most fortunate Ser Jaime commissioned the original piece when his desire for rest took precedence over fulfilling a brother’s request.’ _

 

When it was done, Jaime found himself disappointed. She’d only referred to him by name once! “Is that all she wrote?” 

 

“As her father likely reads this correspondence and we’ve never spoken before, yes,” Tyrion answered. “In regards to future commissions…”

 

“I doubt I can stop you,” the knight grumbled under his breath. It was as much permission as the elder brother was willing to offer but the younger preened at its success regardless. “Which two plays have you requested?” 

 

Receiving an answer, Jaime considered his choices. He almost immediately dismissed Danny Flint. He didn’t need to know the tragic tale of a Northern lady that moved outside of her sex’s boundary and suffered for it. Instead he requested that Tyrion read the Minstrel’s Song aloud, so that he might enjoy it as well. His brother’s voice was coarser from spirits imbibed and deeper than Lyarra’s soft, mellow tones but it was a familiar comfort to him all the same.

 

“Of course,” the man readily agreed and put away his wicked little birds before dragging a stepstool over. He added slyly, “I appreciate Lady Lyarra taking the time to copy these plays for my benefit. No doubt she’d be otherwise engaged in expanding her own personal library before her father sends her away to be wed.”

 

“I’m sure she’ll have enough time for her own copies,” Jaime dismissed impassively. “She hasn’t even flowered yet after all.”

 

His catlike eyes closed, the lion knight missed the sudden shock of surprised horror blooming across Tyrion’s face.

 

_ “What do you mean she hasn’t flowered yet?! _

 

x


	8. Handkerchief Over My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime doesn't quite win a tourney but second place brings him in an insight he'll need in the future.

Chapter Eight

 

Jaime didn’t know why Tyrion was so upset with him. Cersei was as well but her ire was easy enough to explain; she took offense at his busy schedule of practice jousts and how little time that left them together. To his knowledge, she still hadn’t taken another man to bed though he kept his eyes and ears open to the possibility. In doing so and particularly while seeking out men that beared a passing resemblance to himself, Jaime found, to his surprise, that there were a great many men clad in Lannister colors in the Red Keep. For every guard dressed in the black-and-gold of the royal family was another two dressed in Westerlands armor and marching with a lion on their chestplate. It was a little unnerving to see just how many men his twin could potentially replace him with. 

 

Most of these men Jaime knew passingly from his time before joining the Kingsguard but it was with surprise and sincere pleasure, for he hadn’t known how lacking he was for company when neither of his siblings sought him out, that the knight greeted one. Lord Addam Marbrand had been a fellow squire at Casterly Rock. “Addam! How are you?”

 

“Jaime?” The copper-haired knight broke out into a smile and returned his one-armed hug. “I’m well, old friend. Here to take that gilded armor of yours for ransom and earn myself coin sending it back.”

 

“I hope you don’t have any plans for that gold for you’re as likely to win it as a whore would a tip from a miserly Westerling,” Jaime teased. “Have you brought your better half here with you?”

 

“No, Ryla chose to stay behind with the babes,” Addam answered good-naturedly. “Never had a taste for court, you know.”

 

_ ‘She didn’t visit the Rock all that often when the royal court was there either,’  _ Jaime remembered. “Shame. It’s been too long since I could share my sympathies for being stuck with a lug like you.” 

 

“At least I have a favor to remember her by.” The Heir to Ashemark proudly gestured to the bronze handkerchief tied around the hilt of his lance with the burning tree of his crest crookedly stitched on. “With the work of the two most beautiful ladies in the realm pushing me on, I’m certain to win. Ryla did most of it but my own little Lisanna helped.”

 

The blonde knight nodded. “Yes, very good work for a girl of… five namedays?”

 

“Six,” Addam smirked. “Should I assume that my childhood friend forgot my daughter’s years or that you’ve taken one too many blows to the head in these tilts?”

 

“I’ve just arrived from a war, man, show some mercy!” 

 

“Certainly. I have nothing but pity for the man that has to watch the king fuck his whores all day. Did you get a favor of your own or will you have to beg one off your squire again?”

 

“I was five-and-ten then, Addam,” Jaime replied exasperated. “You have to let that go. Do I remind people of that time you were convinced your House stood at the precipice of the Old Gods and the Fire One and tried declare yourself priest of Old R’hllor?”

 

“I was drunk and my sigil made so much more sense then.” Addam groaned before turning their talk to the other competitors they would face today, hoping to tease out a few hints from Jaime’s greater familiarity with them. The blonde knight cheerfully lied his ass off and was midway done with a soliloquy on the martial prowess of a man that couldn’t ride his way out of the rings with a sword to cut his way through when the trumpet blew. They’d have to prepare for the first bout. His hand instinctively reached to his trouser pocket to remove the cooled wax that would keep his ears safe when he withdrew instead a scrap of fabric. 

 

The bastard’s handkerchief. Jaime had forgotten he carried it around with him most days. Sky blue and carefully embroidered with lingonberries and skylarks, it honestly clashed awfully with his crimson and gold armor. He couldn’t help the small upturn of his lips anyway or tucking the handkerchief into his tunic pocket instead, right above his heart, where it would be covered by his breastplate. He could hardly carry another favor so publicly with Cersei watching him.

 

When he looked back up, it was to curious hazel eyes. “Is that your favor then?”

 

“I suppose so,” Jaime shrugged, affecting a casual demeanor as looked to the crowds. “Ready?”

 

Addam dropped the subject but the whisper of sparks across the back of his neck spoke of that puzzled gaze still focused on him. He didn’t know what had elicited such interest but Jaime didn’t care for it as he rode into the tourney field. The knight looked up to the crowds. Fervent smallfolk, they had always loved a good and bloody match, were marching to their seats while the noble boxes were overfull with people in a medley of colors. The centerpiece had his royal goodbrother, sweating in his silks but eager for the matches to begin, even if he was too fat and slow to ride himself any more. His sister took her throne beside her husband, perfectly golden and distant from everyone in the world. She offered a tiny smile to him and Jaime returned it, for all that his heart twinged in guilt. To which lady, he could not say.

 

As the day wore on, any enthusiasm that the lion knight had slowly dripped away. He did well on the matches, progressing one bout after another with that scrap of fabric burning a hole against his chest. Jaime wondered if anyone knew about the conflict inside of him as he rode on? Addam progressed too, neither ashamed of nor hiding away his favor as Jaime was his own and perhaps he did derive some strength from its presence. Soon it was between the two Westerlander knights to win the tourney and as Jaime looked at his friend from across the field, mere slits in the helm revealing that bronze and copper detail, he suddenly had the thought that his snow spirit would find all this  _ silly _ .

 

‘ _ Why do you Southrons want to  _ play _ at war?’  _ The dark-haired girl had huffed when he explained the tourney system to her. At the reminder, Jaime let his own body fall lax, deciding that little Lisanna’s efforts on her father’s favor couldn’t fall to waste. A second later and there was a sharp pain against his gut as he flew backwards in the air and had to tuck and roll out of White Knife’s way.

 

The blonde knight recovered his feet a moment later and denied any assistance as he limped his way to the sidelines. As the victor, Addam looked nothing but surprised as a crown of yellow and red roses landed in his hands. As neither his wife nor daughter were in the audience, he awarded it to the highest-ranked lady in the audience as was only proper. Cersei accepted it with dignity, a sincere smile playing at her painted lips as she was chosen the Queen of Love and Beauty. 

 

_ ‘In the end, she’ll be happy as long as she gets her crown.’ _

 

x

 

It was with the brisk footsteps of a lady with places to be and things to do that Lyarra traversed the cobblestone paths of Winter Town’s sole market square. In truth there was nowhere that she had to be and nothing that she needed to do but the dark-haired bastard did like walking this way. It made her feel Important. Father always walked this way when he was out in the village and while she secretly suspected it was to keep from talking to any people, it also made him look Important. 

 

Robb tragically did not understand the importance of looking Important and therefore, trudged his footsteps until they walked at a normal pace whenever they visited the market together. He couldn’t come today though because Winterfell had a rare perfectly sunny day yesterday and that meant all of her half-siblings were busy counting their freckles. Lyarra, whose near-translucent pale skin neither burned nor tanned nor stained, had taken Jory and left to town to avoid Lady Stark’s dirty looks for the day. She’d return in time for supper but since she had her allowance for the sennight and Father had generously broken down one of the ludicrous coins Ser Jaime’s brother had given her into smaller currency, Lyarra decided to indulge.

 

Two maple sticks of candy later and Jory stopped complaining overmuch about all of the heavy wrapped packages he was forced to bear.

 

“How am I supposed to defend you if I’m worked like a glorified pack mule?”

 

“You don’t need to defend me,” was Lyarra’s absent-minded reply, as she took a closer look at the wicker polish on sale. After some consideration, she decided to buy it. The wicker baskets in her room were soon to fall apart and since House Reed’s shipment would arrive in another moon or so, she could buy enough reeds to make herself a few new ones or repair her existing two. “I’m a bastard.”

 

“That doesn’t mean Lord Stark won’t ransom your return,” Jory argued, grunting as that oilcloth jar was added to his arms. “You’re costing your father a fortune.”

 

“I’d cost five silvers at most.” Lyarra argued, “You’re just trying to get out of your rightful work.”

 

Her guard opened his mouth to dispute this, to which the dark-haired bastard swiftly responded by shoving another maple candy into his mouth. The sticky sweet would keep his teeth shut for awhile, by which he’d have forgotten why he was upset with her in the first place. She had a pouchful of them by her side and was inspired by Lady Stark’s deft handling of Arya’s tantrums by them. It was times like this that she truly admired her father’s wife’s brilliance. If only she had thought of this when Jaime Lannister was here!

 

_ ‘Then again, knowing Ser Jaime, he’d likely as not sit down and demand to be fed every piece I had.’  _

 

She dismissed her brief thought of her odd Southron friend and headed to the next stall in the square. This one had bolts of fabric and while Lyarra wasn’t as enamored of fashion as her middle sister, she did take a moment to appreciate the glossy silk and well-woven cotton on display. Her hand brushed over a sunshine yellow bolt that felt smooth and dry under her fingertips.

 

“An excellent choice, Lady Snow,” the merchant enthused, taking in her Northern features, fine gown and accompanied pack mule and attributing them to Ned Stark’s bastard daughter. “May I say though that these muted colors-” and here he gestured to darker forest greens and understated indigos, “Would show off that minute glow in your skin marvelously?”

 

“I’m really just looking,” Lyarra stated, her sole protest as additional cloths were shown off to her. When the merchant offered to bring out a better collection from the back of his store, lumber and stone preferable in the Northern cold than the easily assembled wooden stalls of the South, she hesitated a bit but eventually nodded. Many of these bolts were lovely and she was almost nine namedays old now…

 

“Jory, do you think I’m old enough to start working on my trousseau?”

 

The brunette guard appointed to her protection looked like a startled doe caught before a hunter’s arrow at such a question. “No matter how I answer, Lyarra, I will be disappointing  _ one _ wolf.”

 

The dark-haired girl rolled her eyes. “I won’t tell my father.”

 

“He’ll know,” Jory spoke solemnly. “Fathers always do.”

 

Deciding that was a positive so far as her question went, Lyarra returned to her perusal of the cloth. The merchant had overheard the exchange and looked quite content to be showing her around his many wares, knowing that the lack of competition in the market here meant he would be the beneficiary of most if not all of her purchases. While the dark-haired girl intended to stock up on her next trip to White Harbor, she did eventually settle on four yards of indigo fabric, six of dove grey, two of that sunshine yellow cotton that could be turned into an airy blouse and, after some consideration, five yards of a bright red cotton. 

 

‘ _ If I’m preparing a trousseau for marriage, I ought to work on it in full, _ ’ Lyarra determined, admiring the cloth briefly before it too was folded up in reed leaves and handed to Jory. Taking pity on her guard, she took a few of the packages herself and marched back to the castle, mind spinning with all of the possibilities for her work. ‘ _ I’ll wed in the North, of course, and it’ll be years till Father demands anything of me, so I have plenty of time for my preparations. I’ll need cloaks, gowns, scarves, gloves and all of the other trappings of my wardrobe. Tapestries, curtains and rugs to decorate my home and maybe a few furniture pieces? I can commission bookshelves from the woodcutter in the Wolfswood and make vials of ink to write my own scrolls. _ ’

 

The North didn’t necessarily appreciate an educated highborn lady, not as Dorne did with their famous insistence on recording any transactions in their land but Lyarra had hopes for a husband that appreciated her cleverness regardless. Just because most of the realm was indifferent doesn’t mean  _ every  _ man there would be, right? She was bound to find one that could esteem her bookish self.

 

_ ‘If I cannot find even that, then I will simply refuse to marry at all. Robb needs someone to throw away all his silly hair pastes anyway.’ _

 

The bastard blamed Jaime Lannister for this. Those flowing golden locks of his evidently gave her brother dangerous ideas where acceptable standards of hygiene were. The infamous knight of the Kingsguard could get away with looking like a Southron Ponce but the Stark Heir could not.

 

x

 

Tyrion mustered up a tired smile as his brother clasped his shoulder in goodbye. If his older brother had to bend his knees a bit to do so, well, he didn’t draw attention to it and Tyrion appreciated that. The dwarf contemplated his actions before swiftly pressing his latest scroll from Ned Stark’s bastard to his brother’s hand. While he inwardly cringed over being unable to read it himself, Tyrion had made a personal request to the lady that she write in larger letters and use changing inks. No doubt she considered him an eccentric but with the rates he paid, it didn’t matter. Lyarra Snow had done so.

 

Jaime’s expression brightened briefly when he saw the familiar writing on the scroll and that made Tyrion feel much better about his decision to continue his plans. They would need altering no doubt and allowances would have to be made for the fact that one party was essentially a child but… Jaime had smiled. His brother rarely smiled truly and each occurrence that he’d do so was to be treasured. He’d also never shown any inclination to a female that wasn’t his twin before and while it was unfortunate that this lady hadn’t even flowered yet, Tyrion would make do. He always did.

 

_ ‘This may even be for the best,’ _ the dwarf thought optimistically, using a step stool to climb into the wheelhouse. ‘ _ Jaime will need more time to accept that someone can come before Cersei in his life.’ _

 

It was a shame that he’d have to leave the Red Keep but his father’s patience with his bane publicly walking the halls of court had run out. Neither would Cersei tolerate his presence any longer, though Tyrion inwardly cackled in glee that his sister was slowly- glacially almost- being replaced in Jaime’s heart by a Northern bastard girl that hadn’t even reached her ninth nameday yet! It was a delightful mirror, having lost her chosen husband, Rhaegar, to Lyanna Stark and then her most devoted lover, Jaime, to the she-wolf’s niece. Tyrion couldn’t wait until his sister learnt the full truth of it.

 

That would come in time though. He was embarrassed to admit that for a brief moment, all of two minutes worth, he’d been horrified by the assumption that his brother had… strange inclinations towards children. Tyrion could excuse almost any sin in his beloved older brother but that demanded an allowance of faith that not even he could muster. Than his mind had reasserted itself and reminded him that Jaime had never shown any interest in a child before or a woman or frankly anyone. The dwarf would have even accepted fighting the king’s youngest brother for the ridiculous Knight of Flowers had that dragged Jaime away from his poisonous half. Everything else considering, that Jaime had a non-romantic fascination with a bastard girl was perfectly acceptable.

 

_ ‘All I have to do is keep repeating that until I believe it,’ _ Tyrion decided as he settled into his plush cushions. He was all set to crack open a book when he became aware of another man sitting across from him. “Ser Addam?”

 

“Lord Tyrion,” was the curt, if polite, nod that he received in return. In explanation, the Westerlander knight added. “My ribs were bruised awfully in the tourney and I felt riding a wheelhouse home would be easier.”

 

“Of course. Let’s dismiss all these amicable half-truths and land on the true reason for why you’re here, shall we?” Tyrion waved his book around. “I have other subjects that require my attention and we both know that you’re as prideful as my brother. Neither of you would accept a wheelhouse instead of a corsair unless you were on the verge of death. And even then, you’d insist that you were merely obeying your wife’s dictates out of concern for  _ her _ emotional well-being.”

 

Addam Marbrand looked offended by this entirely accurate account of his nature but Tyrion was frazzled enough from half a day’s packing to sharply request through a gesture that the other man speak. When he did so, it was a question the dwarf was startled enough to actually give thought to. “Do you know where Jaime got that handkerchief from?”

 

“Which one?” Tyrion asked innocently.

 

Marbrand sent him a chiding look, unamused and deeply inquisitive if his eyes were anything to follow. “The light blue one with the bird and the flowers and vines? The one he checks repeatedly when he thinks no one’s looking?”

 

“Oh, _ that one _ ,” the dwarf said with exaggerated realization. He flashed a toothy smile at his brother’s friend and now wary lord’s heir. “A lady he deeply admires.”

 

At the man’s expectant stare, Tyrion decided on his next step. He would lay the foundation and Jaime would build it up to a keep worthy of the lady he chose. Not that he could afford many details revealed but those that were would be disassembled in-depth by lords such as these. Addam Marbrand rarely visited the court but he had clout aplenty in the Westerlands and was well-liked by many of his father’s bannermen. He was the sort of man that others liked to follow.

 

“I will not tell you of her name for I do not know it,” Tyrion lied. “But I know my brother met a dark-haired maiden recently that has captured his fascination unlike anyone else. I inform you this in confidence-” Tell your wife, she’ll spread it  _ everywhere _ . “-but it is a one-sided affection. Mostly because my brother’s method of pitching woo is to stare longingly at her from afar and considering his naturally disdainful expression? She thinks him secretly disapproving of her from afar.”

 

Addam winced. “Poor Jaime.”

 

“Eh, he’d have to learn someday that a pretty face doesn’t guarantee all maidens would swoon at his feet, right?”

 

This brought out a huff of laughter. “He doesn’t know how to court the lady?”

 

“As a Kingsguard member, he cannot exactly do so,” Tyrion pointed out. “He has spoken of her to me though. She is a scholarly woman with a love for children and, these are Jaime’s direct words, ‘eyes that should be banished from any part of the Seven Realms’.”

 

The copper-haired knight blinked. “Are they so unsettling?”

 

The dwarf snorted. “They upbraid  _ him _ often enough but that may be because they’re too lovely for Jaime to accustom himself to. Unfortunately that’s all I know.”

 

“I see,” Addam Marbrand looked contemplative. “I’ve much to think of, Lord Tyrion. Thank you.”

 

x


End file.
